The Beauty Underneath
by LoudLewdLyricalMiracle
Summary: What if Erik had revealed himself to Christine sooner and she had begun to fall in love with him before Raoul re-entered her life? What if he had become more human because of her and had never turned into a murderer? Would their love have been beautiful or still doomed to a horrible fate? Role-reversal AU, with Raoul as the antagonist. COMPLETE.
1. Gustave Daae's Death

Gustave's Death

1862

 _Adelaide_

Adelaide Giry stared wearily down at Gustave, who had finally fallen asleep after what had been a dreadfully long night. She had forced herself to stay by his side the entire time, listening to the dry cough that rattled throughout his entire body in fits until he could barely breathe. From time to time his nose would run red with blood, and she would wipe it away with a stained handkerchief before using the cleaner side of the fabric to wipe her own watery eyes. It broke her heart in two to see him in such a state. She wanted to run away from the sheer horror of his sickly sight but she knew deep down she could never just leave him, not when he was like this. Not when he needed her so. He was almost like a child right now, so dependent on the doctors, nurses, and herself. She wondered if he could even rationalize the bustling of people around him from day to day, or if the heat in his body had already boiled the thoughts in his head to mist.

She hesitantly reached out and took his pale hand in hers, rubbing the side of his wrist with her thumb anxiously, hoping the gesture wouldn't wake him. She knew he needed rest more than she needed the comfort of his touch, but at least holding his hand she could close her eyes for a moment and pretend that he was alright. That they were side by side on a warm spring night, watching a show together or sitting in a friend's parlor for tea. Adelaide shook her head dismissively in defeat. Those things would never happen for them now. Why even let herself dream?

Studying Gustave's sunken face, it almost surprised her how deathly he had begun to look since he'd fallen asleep, lying there so still with his ashen skin and cracked lips. Her eyes began to tear up as she came to the realization that her Gustave would probably not make it through the night.

The damned infection had taken him so quickly! Adelaide was terribly angry at fate for it's cruelty. So soon after she had found him again her once vibrant musician was now the sickly, bedridden man before her. She silently cursed God. How He could be so cruel! How He kept taking and taking from her all she loved - again and again!

She'd been there, visiting him when he first collapsed with the fever. He'd been laughing and smiling and telling her wonderful stories about his travels with his young daughter. She'd been entranced by the way he had spoken with such mirth and joy in his voice. But as the night progressed, he'd gotten less lively. Adelaide had assumed him to just be tired. She'd dismissed herself for the night so he could rest and had been walking towards the door when she heard him fall, an echo of a thud on the hardwood floors.

He hadn't stood back up since. She remembered racing to his side and crying out for help, hot tears pouring down her face as she cradled his body close to hers. He'd been limp in her arms and she'd seen his pleading eyes meeting hers as he passed out and was lost to the world.

Yes, she knew he would die. _When_ was the better question now.

So many thoughts were swimming through her head that it almost made her dizzy. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep making her emotional. Or perhaps it was her heart, breaking piece by piece as the nearby clock ticked away her lover's life minute after minute.

"What am I to do without you Gustave? What about Christine? Is it I who must watch over her after you are gone?" She whispered, eyes half shut as she hung her head in defeat.

"I'd hoped," she heard him whisper, a sound so soft she almost hadn't heard it at all.

Adelaide jumped slightly, taken back, surprised that he hadn't been asleep as she had thought. She immediately pulled herself forward to the edge of her chair and took his hand in both of hers as she leaned down to hear him better. His eyes were still closed and for a second she thought she had only imagined him speaking to her. That is, until he continued.

"Please, Adel...take her with you. To the opera house. She could stay there...with you. With little Meg. She would have...family," he rasped out, his voice strained.

"But Gustave," she smiled sadly, a single tear falling down her cheek as she looked at him, "We are not her family, Meg and I. Not like you are. She needs you."

"But you are family...none the less," he softly whispered, turning to her and opening his eyes fully at long last. When had the last time been that she'd seen those eyes? They were so blue and beautiful, even on his ill face, that she could swim in them and sink away. Leave the hurt behind.

She vaguely remembered the first time she'd seen his eyes, a devious shine in them as she'd danced to the fast-paced tune he'd played for her on his violin. How the years had passed since those long ago days.

"I don't know how to raise two daughters alone," she confessed, ashamed, "It's been hard enough, to work at the opera house and have time for Meg. I already feel as though I neglect her."

Gustave sighed, coughing slightly. "Oh Adelaide, how I wish you would've told me about Meg. I would have been there. I would have come for the both of you in an instant."

"I couldn't!" She protested in anguish. "I couldn't ruin your life like that! I could never had invaded the sanctity of your marriage with such knowledge. I cared for you far too much to even dream of it! Besides...you had Mareena. When I first heard her sing I knew I could never compete with her for your affections. You were so enchanted by her. She was the star, an angel amongst us, while I was merely a traveling ballerina. Nothing more..."

Adelaide paused, lost in another time as she recalled those fateful days. "Yet, even after I'd heard you two had gotten married," she whispered, looking down at his hand that she still held, "I still wished for you. For us...somehow."

She smiled a sad, sweet smile at him, bringing one hand to hold the side of his face tenderly. He looked up at her and returned the gesture, turning in the bed and raising a shaky palm to rest gently against her cheek. She almost sighed at the sensation of his affectionate gesture.

"Once upon another time, perhaps," he whispered sorrowfully, looking into her eyes.

"I wish that other time had gotten its chance," she whispered through silent tears, "I don't want to be alone again. I don't want to lose you."

"You won't have lost me, Adelaide. I'll always be with you, in that beautiful heart of yours..." His voice faded out as he spoke, growing softer and softer with each word. The words themselves were so sweetly spoken though, even through the croaking sickness in his voice. She treasured them.

Gustave fell back to the bed, weakness overtaking him. Adelaide knew then that he didn't have much time. She rushed to find his daughter Christine. She knew the little girl deserved to share in her father's final moments, even if Adelaide wished them all to herself.

 _Christine_

Christine peered over the hospital bed and stared at her father, watching his slimming frame under the sheets as it rose and fell in shaky breaths. His fever had been worse over the past few days, and sweat now rolled from the sides of his thinning blonde hair, dampening what Christine knew was his favorite dress shirt. She couldn't stop her eyes from welling up with tears at the sight of her best friend and father in this state. Oh, how cruel this life could be!

Her father had always taught her of God and angels, but what God would allow him to suffer in such a way? He was a good man and the best father any girl could ask for. They'd traveled everywhere together. From the rolling, green hills of her birthplace in Sweden to the traveling fairs in southern Paris.

They'd always been together. A team and a family, no matter how small and broken. Over the years he had played his violin for people from all over Europe and she would never be far from his side. She would stay beneath the stages as he played, twirling about in her dresses to the beautiful music he created, lost in her own happy world.

On several occasions, now that she was older, he had allowed her join him and sing as accompaniment to his songs. He wrote such marvelous songs for her to sing, most about the dark folk stories of the North. Stories of playful goblins and and angels of music. Lyrics he himself had written, inspired by the bedtime stories he read to her at night.

She didn't want the songs to end. She wanted to perform by his side always.

She remembered when he'd first asked her to come onstage with him. She'd been so nervous, even though they'd been practicing, and he'd almost had to drag her out from behind the curtain. As soon as he'd begun to play though she'd felt all her fears vanish and she'd sung just as he'd taught her to. The small crowd had roared with applause and a young boy had even shyly given her a yellow daisy afterwards. It had been a truly magical day.

 _Will you die here?_ She thought with despair, _are our journeys and adventures at their end, Papa?_

"Shhhh, my child," she heard him whisper with closed eyes, "Do n-not cry. I hate to se-ee you cry..."

Christine sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve, the lacy ends scratching her cheek.

"I'm sorry Papa. I'm trying to be strong, just like you taught me to be, but this simply isn't fair!" She whimpered, stomping her foot. "I cannot bare to see you like this! You must get better. You still have so much to teach me about music. You promised me you'd teach me everything you know! Please papa, I never got to meet mother - I can't lose you as well!"

Her tears were streaming down both sides of her face now as she clutched the sides of his bed sheets in fists. He started to cough heavily as he tried to turn and console her, and she watched with horror as a thin red line of blood spilled from the corner of his lips and trailed slowly down his neck. She could barely breathe seeing such a sight. It felt as though all of the air in the room was being sucked away.

She was falling then, to her knees at his bedside. She felt a gentle hand touch her shoulder. She looked up to see Madame Giry standing by her side. The woman bent down and whispered harshly in her ear.

"Dear girl, you must have strength! For your father's sake, pull it together! You know what is happening. Do not make him upset in this hour. Let him go peacefully knowing that he is loved."

Christine nodded her head, knowing Madame Giry was right. Though the woman was only in her mid-twenties, she bore a wisdom of someone much older, and her voice demanded order when she spoke. Ever since she'd met her father's old friend a few days ago, she knew best to listen to her.

Her father wore a distraught face as his coughing subsided and he reached his hand down to tilt her chin up. She felt guilt riddle through her for causing that sorrowful look in his eyes. Then, so suddenly, his features changed. He had the same look of wonder in his eyes as he did when he taught her music.

"Listen, Christine...listen to what I say now. When I am gone child, I promise that our music will not die with me. I shall continue playing the violin - for God himself! - and I can think of no greater honor. And once I get to Heaven, I shall ask him to send to you an angel of music, just like in the stories I used to read to you. And that angel will carry your voice to new heights so that you can astound us all on day, my dearest."

Christine's eyes lit up in wonder at the words her father spoke. Would he really send her an angel? Would their music live on forever? It would be wonderful. Almost as if he were still there beside her as long as she could sing their music.

"You promise, Father? You promise me that the Angel of Music will come to me?" She asked.

"I promise, Christine."

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 **Thank you for tuning into this story! This the first fanfiction I ever wrote, and I'm proud to say that it's finally complete! So enjoy and please remember to leave reviews as you read! I will continue reading reviews and answering questions about this story from my readers for all of forever!**

 **Also, Christine's mother in this fic in named Mareena. That's pronounced 'Marine-ah', in case names confuse you. I know I struggle greatly with names I don't recognize!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	2. Learn to be Lonely

Learn to be Lonely

1863

 _Christine_

Christine carefully produced the small maroon matchbox she kept in the side pocket of her nightgown. Madame Giry had always warned her to be careful when lighting the matches without her supervision, but Christine had been coming to the opera house's chapel every night since her arrival, and had a very steady hand now as she stuck one of the matchsticks and lit her father's memorial candle with expert care. The tiny glow lit up the dark stone room around her with a warm, inviting glow. She smiled sadly, thinking about how her father could always light up a room, even now from the grave.

The sad smile she wore had become her usual smile since his passing. A small, struggling expression that she hoped the people around her accepted as sincere. She had been brought to the Opera Populaire two months ago exactly today, and while the other girls had been nice to her and Madame Giry had been kind and caring, she was having difficulty adjusting to her new life.

For her entire life she had grown so used to waking up every few days to exciting new places, to falling asleep to the wondrous sounds of the violin, and to meeting all sorts of wordly artists and musicians. Her new life was nowhere near as exciting. Now she was to be a ballerina and chorus girl. One of many, faceless and obedient. She had a set schedule of waking up, eating, stretching, and dancing. Of very basic vocal instruction that would make her voice blend in with the other girls'.

When she'd first started her choir training she'd feared never again feeling that special feeling inside of her that she'd felt when she had sung with her father. She'd tried once or twice to practice on her own, but found that she was not able to. Once upon a time she'd had a dream to one day be a leading soprano like her mother had been. But without her father to guide her, singing felt hollow and dancing too staged. The passion and wonder was long gone, snuffed out like a dying flame. Christine was sure by now that Madame Giry had noticed. She could see the disappointment in her eyes every time she missed her footing in a dance or lost her pitch in a song.

Christine's depression without him around had become physically and mentally draining. She was getting skinnier as her appetite faltered, and was now smaller than even Meg. She also wasn't brushing her hair out as well as she usually did, and the back of her dark curls were somewhat matted from the lack of effort she'd put into their care. She didn't notice though. Her days were all beginning to blur together and she simply went through the motions that were expected of her, doing no more or less than she had to.

She tried very hard after rehearsals each day to spend a few moments alone with her father's memory. It was comforting, to speak to him in the chapel. She would try to keep him up to date with what she was learning or working on next. She tried to speak to him with enthusiasm, to be cheerful when she prayed, but each day after the first few moments of talking to him she would find the sadness inside of her turn slowly into scathing anger and misunderstanding for why he had left her alone on this earth.

But was she alone? Maybe she was just being a silly child with a temper. She wasn't here by herself after all. Madame Giry made time for her when she could. But Christine hated to bother her. She always seemed so busy, what with her main cast of adult dancers as well as her youth corps that would one day replace them.

Any free time she had she tried to spend with her real daughter, Meg. Christine didn't dare disturb them in those few precious moments they spent together each day. Meg deserved her mother's attention. She worked extra hard in her dancing to make time for it, and Christine knew how special a parent and child's bond was. She had once shared in that glowing bond herself.

Only now that her father was gone, that glow seemed to be flickering and fading. Today was her ninth birthday, and it was the first birthday she had ever woken up to without him. The grim reality of it all had set in that morning when she'd awoken and had followed her around like grisly shadow all throughout the day. She suddenly couldn't say anything aloud to her father as she knelt there in the chapel. She felt defeated and withdrawn.

Part of her wanted nothing more than to go back down the hall to her dorm and try to sleep. Perhaps than she could find some comfort. Perhaps she would dream of an angel of music singing songs in her head. She used to have those dreams all the time when she was younger. She wondered sometimes if it had been her father practicing his violin at night that had brought the angels to her dreams. She wished with all of her heart that God had allowed him to send her one. After all, her father had promised her that he would. Surely then, if he could have, he would have.

Or had those just been the words he'd said to calm a foolish, naive little girl? She balled her fists up in the skirt of her dress and stared at his picture in fury and disappointment. She wanted life, wanted music again! Not the relentless, awful piano of the ballet corps' rehearsal studio, but the wonder and beauty of his violin! The words of the songs he'd written especially for her! She didn't have a single one of his journals or sheet music, and without them she was beginning to forget the words to some of their songs.

He'd lied to her! Their music _would_ die. It would never soar like he'd promised her it would! Her father had been a liar!

"Her father promised her!" She shouted in anger, standing to her feet, frustration coursing through her. She stood there a moment, fuming, and then whispered with spite to the small photograph of him that Madame Giry had hung below his candle. "Why have you not kept your promise? Why have you forsaken me, father? What did I do wrong?"

She turned away from his picture and found herself making eye contact with the statue of a weeping angel that stood menacingly tall in the corner of the chapel. Its face was downhearted and its wings curved inward, like it too was grieving for someone lost and shriveling up to hide away from the world. She was usually frightened of the statue, what with the way it seemed to loom so much larger than she. But today the stone facade seemed to reflect exactly how she felt inside. She looked it in its stony eyes and felt a compassionate bond with it.

She hated the sorrowful face it wore. At least she hadn't been born sad, as this angel was. The beautiful carved stone would always look depressed, just because someone had made it so. Christine pitied it for that reason. Looking up at it without any fear, she suddenly felt herself singing to it. If no one could comfort her, at least she could try and comfort another.

" _Angel of true sadness, born into emptiness, learn to be lonely. Learn to find your way your way in darkness. Who will be there for you? Comfort and care for you? Learn to be lonely; learn to be your one companion..._ "

It was a song her father had written long ago, mourning the death of her mother. She had often heard him singing it to himself, especially at night. It had been his crutch in hard times.

Christine stood up and walked hesitantly over to the stone figure. She wondered if the advice she sang was for the angel or for herself. She raised up her tiny hand to touch its smooth, cold one. A thin line of tears ran down her face as her heart broke from the emotion of hearing her own voice echoing throughout the chapel. Could a child of nine truly sound this sad? She felt so much older and worn down nowadays.

" _Together we can learn to be lonely...learn that life can be lived...that life can be loved alone_."

Not knowing what else to do, she embraced the statue. In her mind the cold stone was her father's warm, protective arms around her. She stayed there as the minutes passed, her tiny sobs echoing in the darkness. Eventually she fell to her knees and just laid there. Numb as the silence around her.

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 **The song in this chapter is _Learn to be Lonely_ from ALW. Also, this story is formatted to read best on the Fanfiction app, so if any of the spacing seems off that app is free for both Apple and Android users and I highly recommend it, if only for the fact that you can change the screen color to look like actual paper! I for one love it.**

 **Please remember to drop a review! I know it's a short chapter but that's only because writing from a nine year old's perspective is killer.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	3. The Phantom is Born

The Phantom is Born

1863

 _Erik_

Erik let out a dark chuckle as he watched the skittish ballet dancers scream and huddle together in the center of the stage. He'd managed to twist a long wire through the wall that connected the new gas-powered stage lighting to a switch behind the backstage paneling. One pull of the wire from his hiding place above and the theater could now go completely black faster than he could snap of his fingers. Smirking to himself, he pulled out the letter he'd written to Adelaide about her horrendous new troupe and dropped it down onto the stage from the catwalk. As he heard it hit the floor he released the wire and the flames sprung back to life in the lanterns, illuminating the room once more.

"Look!" one of the girls cried out, "It's a letter from the opera ghost!"

"The phantom of the opera," another one agreed, sounding amazed, "so he _is_ real then!"

Ghost. Phantom. Erik had eventually allowed himself to accept the names they'd chosen for him. After all, he may as well have been a spirit. He supposed he looked enough like Death itself, with his misshapen face and bony body. He looked down at his figure, frowning ever so slightly. The black cloak he was wearing today was slightly too large on him, as all his clothing was, barely hanging on to his thin, slinky frame; and when he walked it flew behind him like a great shadow. He was a tall young man but a very skinny one unfortunately. Being a ghost didn't put much food on the table.

In the past couple of years a few of the workers in the opera house had almost caught him as he'd haunted about, but he was sure they'd only ever caught glimpses of his dark figure as he'd quickly vanished from their sight. The stagehands as a whole though were rather imaginative drunks, and it hadn't been long after he'd arrived they'd begun to spread rumors of a ghost inhabiting the theatre to scare the ballet. He'd taken advantage of their stories since then, all the while also making sure to take more precaution. He made sure he always wore black now when he went about the opera house at night, and years ago he'd stolen a plain white half-mask from the prop room to hide the ghastly right side of his visage. Not enough years had passed since he'd been widely known throughout the streets of Paris as the Devil's Child, and he knew well enough that he couldn't risk being recognized as such a creature ever again. He still had a price on his head.

The chattering of the women's ballet was only silenced when he saw Adelaide thump her cane down onto the stage. He cringed at the sound, hoping she wasn't putting any dents in the hardwood flooring with that attitude of hers. Then he saw her hold out her hand as one of the dancers scrambled forward, grabbing his letter and pressing it into her palm with haste. Her eyes scanned over his recommendations with an annoyed look at first. Then after a moment he saw a flash of realization setting into her face. She seemed to agree with him that her two blonde dancers had indeed been off by two beats since the very beginning of tonight's rehearsals. She crumpled up the letter and stuffed it into the pocket of her gown and immediately began to scold them for their complete disregard to _Faust_ and the beauty of their featured ballet.

Erik had grown to consider himself quite a fan of the Opera _Faust_ , and refused to watch a less than perfect performance of it. When it had first premiered at the Opera Populaire five years ago Erik had only been fourteen years of age. He had watched it from box five, which had been closed for construction that night after a loose statue had fallen from the ceiling and made the flooring there dangerously unstable. He'd stood in the back of the box were it was undamaged, hidden in the shadows, and had been mesmerized by Adelaide and the other performers as they'd spun around the stage. It had been then that Erik had decided to make himself a regular spectator (and _specter_ ) of the opera house's many performances.

As he began attending each and every performance he started to notice the differences between good actors and bad ones, as well as when dancers missed their jumps or were out of time with one another. He grew increasingly agitated at one point when a certain pianist would fumble over his own keys or play slower than the rest of the orchestra around him. Granted by then Erik had already mastered the piano _and_ the organ so he was especially judgmental over that affair.

He'd been playing those particular instruments every night since he was only ten years old, having spent an entire month first figuring out how to get the opera house's old, broken upright down into his lair and then another month repairing it. Adelaide had still only been a young ballerina then. A girl of fourteen who had rescued him even after she'd seen him kill. She'd been scared of the little boy he was then, but she loved the fact that he had eventually taken up teaching himself music. Perhaps in her mind him creating beautiful music hid the horrors of his past and face. Whatever her reason, he was glad that he had had her encouragement.

Whenever old instruments would get put into storage or sheet music get torn beyond use, Adelaide would hide them in the prima donna Clarette Budetou's dressing room for him to take. She'd leave them in the large corner of the room behind the many flower arrangements that were always waiting for her; there was much wasted space behind the many displays. She would balance them in the crook of the corner and then in the dead of night Erik would steal them away, down to his lair in the dark catacombs. It had always been their game to play. It had given Adelaide a sense of rebelliousness and control in those early years, and had given Erik a chance to finally make something of his so far pitiful existence.

He remembered when Adelaide had turned seventeen and had decided to leave the opera house. The only friend Erik had ever had had abandoned him completely to go on tour with an up-and-coming production of the very opera they were practicing now. It was her big break, she had told him in the letter that she'd left behind. After her disappearance Erik had focused very hard on first mastering the violin and then his own voice. He'd needed distractions away from the loneliness that had overcome him and even though he had been young he knew he'd had talent hidden inside of himself somewhere. He'd taken mental lessons from the rafters and walls of the opera house as musicians had taught lessons to their own students. Then he had returned to his cavern and practiced day and night until he was better than even the professional musicians themselves.

Adelaide returned when he was fourteen. She was only the reason he had been brave enough to venture out into that damaged box in the first place. He'd wanted so badly to see the production of _Faust_ that had taken her away from him for so long. But he'd noticed as he watched that even though the opera had been beautiful, something about the way his friend had danced had lacked the passion she'd had when he'd left.

It was in a letter left backstage for him that night that she had professed to him what she had done. How she had been a silly young woman who had fallen in love with a musician, only to have him later leave the show with the leading soprano of their production and marry the damned woman not soon after. Adelaide had told Erik that her heart had been broken while she had been out in the world, and that she prayed he would never know the pain of losing a lover like that, even if he had been too young to think about such things at the time. Erik recalled that he had merely scoffed at her concern for _his_ love life, as if that would ever be a problem! His own mother had been so disgusted by his face that she had sold him to the circus rather than attempt to try and love him. No, he would never find love. The only mistress he would ever know would be the music of the night, and he was just fine with that.

Adelaide had seemed to return to more of how she was before as time moved on, though Erik had been able to see through that facade to the depression within during those fateful months. He'd seen it in her slow movements and distant faces. Her smile had become a ghost of a thing and her hair had lost the sheen that her lengthy care routine had usually provided, her powder sometimes untouched for weeks at a time. And when she discovered she was pregnant he'd feared greatly what such news would do to her. But her overall mood had seemed to changed for the better as she'd carried the child. She'd started acting happier, bouncing through life even though her career had all but halted still. She'd begun to leave more and more books of sheet music for him, as a token for missing so many of his birthdays while she'd been on tour, a note had said. In a way those tokens had predicated to him the motherly heart he'd always known her to have. His fears had all but vanished then about how she would fare as a true guardian to a child.

On one night after she'd been back, he had gone into the prima donna's dressing room after dark to find a black, leather-bound music book waiting for him. The parchment had had fine ledger lines printed inside of it, but otherwise had been completely blank. Inside the cover she had written in scrolling, blood red ink: _Composer: Erik Destler_. He'd been touched by the gift and the fact that his adopted sister had thought highly enough of him to actually believe in his dreams of one day being a real musician. He'd hugged it tightly to his chest and almost wept right there on the floor.

While Adelaide had been away, Erik had redesigned one of the construction tunnels that led from the foundation of the opera house up into the theater. It had led straight to the dressing room they had passed items and notes through. He'd broken through the bricks and transformed it into a simpler way for him to get into the room, and had hidden the entrance behind an old set mirror he'd found in the design warehouse. He hadn't realized until he completed his project though that the mirror was a one-way window as well, so that actors could see their entrance cues from behind the set. He had never used it as such though; he'd vowed himself never to be a complete pervert like that fop of a stagehand Banquet he'd seen fumbling around from time to time. The mirror had proved to be his smartest invention though as he'd gripped his new music book tightly with joy that evening. He'd quickly descended through the mirror and into the tunnels that night to write his first original song: _The Music of the Night_. A piece that, if he'd had a loving mother and a normal home, might have have been framed and proudly hung up on the wall for all to see.

Years later he stood there on the catwalk, a phantom of nineteen above the equally young ballerinas below, judging them as if he was indeed one of their teachers. He sometimes wished he could be, but he knew he could never reveal himself to them. He would always have to speak through his sister, for his own safety as well as theirs.

He would never allow another person to look him in the eyes again. He feared their judgement too much, their wrath and torture that he'd already felt enough of for one lifetime. He wouldn't dare allow them see the Devil's Child, a man they'd once thought no more deserving of food or water than a rat. No, he vowed to himself that he would never again sink that low. He would always remain above them all, a phantom and master of his own creation. He would allow them to fear him. It was better that way.

As Erik watched Adelaide struggle to demonstrate where her blonde dancers were supposed to be placing their feet he grew agitated. He yearned to be able to tell them directly what it was they needed to do! What precise errors he'd witnessed! He wished he could teach all that he'd learned in his many years of studies below the opera house. Such knowledge was wasted kept only to himself.

Taking in a much needed yet curt breath, he reminded himself that the blondes were probably exhausted from the long rehearsal and that improvements wouldn't happen overnight.

"Oh well," he mumbled to himself, growing bored with their' incompetence. He knew Adelaide would sort them out before opening night and that was all that mattered. After all, she owed him that much considering she'd disappeared again recently in the past two months for a week without so much as telling him where'd she'd gone. He'd been scared at first that she'd fallen ill. Then he'd wondered about the possibility of her having been courted by a man. But after her heartbreak of so many years ago, he'd doubted that scenario even as it'd passed through his mind. She was colder now than back then. He doubted she'd ever make the mistake of loving someone again after her spurning.

As it turned out, she had left him a letter backstage that he'd simply missed. Three days after he'd found it, and in it she'd simply said she was leaving to visit a friend. He'd found it odd she hadn't mentioned which friend, as he had never known her to have any acquaintances outside the opera house. He'd suspected it was someone from when she had toured.

When she'd finally returned, he'd found another letter after a week had passed, just inside of his mirror. It turned out her friend had fallen deathly ill during her visit, and that she'd had to bury him. He himself had never been to a funeral but had hoped she was dealing with it well.

 _I've brought back with me his only daughter_ , she'd written him, _an odd little bird named Christine. She will join my youngest ballet group in training with Meg immediately, before she is too old to learn. Her father was a brilliant musician so it is my hope that she shares in some of his talents. He told me before he'd fallen ill that she longs to one day be an opera singer like her mother was. I worry though that her father's death has been too hard on her. She doesn't sing as well as the young prodigy he'd described to me. She sings like a caged bird that refuses to fly. She's getting worse too. I fear she will have to focus on her dancing more if she wants to remain here under my care. I'd hate to send her away but the managers want dancers and chorus girls, not orphans. I suppose I will do what I can for her though, if only to honor the memory of my dearly departed friend. After all I am not, contrary to what some of my students believe, a heartless woman. I believe in time I can get through to her. It will require much patience but I haven't given up yet._

Erik himself had seen the girl once or twice when he'd walked the catwalks above Adelaide's classes. She didn't seem anything special to him. She was very small for her age, and extremely thin. Almost as thin as he, though he didn't have to grace others with his appearances as she did. Still though, he'd found himself thinking that such a frail thing would never stand a chance in his older sister's classes, let alone one day trying for the main stage.

He'd felt slightly bad for the orphan girl at first when he'd watched her, knowing what it was like to live without parental figures to turn to. But at least this girl had the ballet corps to look to for family. Adelaide's daughter had started talking to her as he'd watched, and he had seen what looked like a smile passed between the two. Seeing her smile had made his guilt over judging her disappear like a wisp of smoke. That young girl hadn't known a sliver of the pain he'd known at her age. She didn't need his sympathy.

Jumping down from the catwalk, Erik had planned on using the dressing room mirror to return home, but had decided against the idea after hearing Clarette's voice from inside as he passed by. He continued on then, slipping through the shadows of the opera house in one fluid motion against the dark walls as he made his way to the chapel. Inside there, he could slip into the other entrance to his lair behind the statue of the three saints.

Nearing the heavy wooden door of the chapel Erik froze, pausing for a moment as a peculiar sound reached his ear. From inside the chapel he could have sworn he heard _singing_. He shook his head in disbelief. The choir would all be in their beds by now. Surely he was hearing things. He pushed the door forward with with his fingertips, barely a sliver, and listened closer. Inside he could hear a beautifully airy voice, high-pitched and ringing with heartbroken pain.

 _"Who will be there for you? Comfort and care for you? Learn to be lonely; learn to be your one companion..."_

He'd never heard lyrics so depressing, except for a fair few verses he himself had written. The voice paused, and when it resumed he could hear crying. Erik couldn't described the way it sounded. Almost hopeful in a way, but also torn in half. Defeated. He knew that feeling. His stomach sank as he leaned his back against the wall and sighed. He was indecisive in that moment. He knew he should have fled from the hall as soon as he realized someone was inside the chapel, yet here he still stood. Could he bring himself to abandon someone who sounded so pained? So much like a reflection of himself?

 _"Together we can learn to be lonely...learn life can be lived...that life can be loved alone."_

It was almost as if the voice were singing directly to him. It was entrancing. Curiosity peaked inside of him as he slid through the doorway and immediately slipped to the right to stand behind the confessional booth. When he peered around the corner of the wooden structure he nearly teared up at the image before him. Standing not so tall, a young girl in a rosy colored nightgown hung tightly to the statue the stood erect in the corner opposite the memorial candles. One single candle had been lit behind where she stood. She was sobbing uncontrollably into the stone and eventually fell to her knees and hung her head in defeat at its base. When she did so, she turned her head ever so slightly and he recognized the young girl at once.

Christine.

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* * *

 **In the many versions of POTO where Erik comes to the opera house as a child there really isn't that much detail as to what his early life may have been like. I got to have a lot of fun with that angle here. Let me know what you thought of it! Drop a review below!**


	4. An Angel of Music

Angel of Music

1863

 _Erik_

Erik watched as the little girl Adelaide had brought to the theatre wept at the feet of the stone angel. Guilt ripped through him for thinking earlier that she had not deserved his sympathy. Sure, she did not know of the pain he'd endured in his childhood, but what child had? His had been inhumanly cruel. He'd been treated like a rabid animal and left to die on more than one occasion, sometimes from infection and sometimes starvation. Usually both. But there was more than one kind of pain in this world. He realized that, remembering how Adelaide had written to him long ago about her lost love. Sure, the loss of a father was different than that of a lover's, but he'd seen enough of the world, even from just inside these walls, to know how treasured love could be, no matter what kind.

He wondered how he would feel if Adelaide were to die. The thought itself hung heavy in the air like cigarette smoke and seemed to choke him. He would probably become a shell of the already hollow ghost he was. He loved his adopted sister dearly, and would do anything for her. He knew without question that he would both kill and die for her, for she was all he had in this world.

 _Just as this girl's father was all that she'd had_ , he thought grimly, feeling pity towards the young singer.

Tapping his fingers silently on the wood of the confessional, he wondered what he could do to help this young girl through her sadness. His first thought was to go and fetch Adelaide, but he knew it was well past the Youth Ballet curfew and the last thing this poor girl needed in her life was more punishment. His sister was kindhearted, have no doubt, but her rules were law. He supposed he could write to the girl. A letter of some sort of reassurance perhaps. Why not? He wrote to Adelaide. But what words of comfort could he possibly have to offer a little girl? Did they even know how to read at her age? And how would he address her?

He honestly knew nothing of children, he realized with defeat. The only ones he'd ever even seen were those in the Youth Ballet classes, which he dreaded watching for more than five minutes at a time. Most dancers were no good until their teen years, and even then many were still too awkward to hold position correctly. In fact, the only child he knew the slightest bit about was Adelaide's daughter Meg, and even that wasn't much. Just what Adelaide had written to him in passing through her letters.

Years ago, after Erik had been freed from his hellish past, he'd only been able to find solace in music. Could this little girl be saved through song, as he had been? Adelaide had said she couldn't sing in groups; that she grieved too hard to focus on her studies. But the voice he had heard just now was like a tiny angel's. Sure, she needed direction, but the raw talent was plain to see. He watched her as she sleepily rubbed her cheek of her tears and moved away from the statue, pulling her knees up to her chest. A good minute passed before she raised her face once more to look up at the monument.

"My father once spoke of an angel," she said solemnly to the stone in a whisper, "I used to dream he'd appear but now I fear it was a foolish hope. Yet still I _do_ pray, every night I pray for him!" She sighed and looked about the room with large, glossy eyes. "Sometimes, I sit in this room and beckon him softly, hoping that he's already here, somewhere inside these walls, simply hiding from me until the time is right."

Something inside of Erik changed in that moment. As he listened to her speak of pleas and prayers that had fallen upon deaf eyes he felt his heart grieve heavily for her. For once he didn't hold himself back, or think things through he he normally did. He thought only of the little girl before him, torn apart from loneliness, yearning for guidance. The little girl who, despite everything, wanted one day to be an opera singer.

He vowed she would be. If being a singer would make her smile, he would teach her all he knew. He made himself promise that as long as he was around, he wouldn't allow her to cry like this ever again. He crouched down so that he was positive he was completely hidden in the dark. Then he threw his voice the way the gypsies had done so many times in his years at the traveling circus. He made it sound as if it came from the ceiling.

If what Christine needed was an angel, an angel was what he would become.

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 _Christine_

" _Here now, child, do not weep. For I have at last heard your prayers and I am here now_ ," a dark yet gentle voice suddenly whispered in the darkness of the chapel, " _I am your Angel of Music and I am here to guide and protect you_."

Christine froze where she sat, half in paralyzed fear and half in absolute wonder. Was she hearing things? Had her father really sent her an angel? She spun around, glancing at the dark stone and wooden panels around her. Not even a fleck of dust fell in the night; all was still. She could feel her heart racing a thousand beats a minute as her palms began to sweat. She placed one of her hands on the cold, stone floor and pushed herself hesitantly to her feet. She looked up at the dark ceiling, thinking for a moment that maybe she would see a warm light or a set of white wings somewhere in the faults of the crackling rock. But the air was frigid and the ceiling bare, save for a small spider that crawled on by without a care in the world.

She knew she needed to say something in response, but her tongue grew dry and her throat tight. For what could she say to an angel? She didn't know-but she knew she must say something! What if the angel left, thinking she no longer needed him? She would never forgive herself. She opened her mouth and spoke with all the courage held deep within her heart, longing for the guidance her angel could bring her.

"Angel of music, my guide and guardian, you are here at last! Father was right...bless him and forgive my scornful words! Please, I beg you to stay by my side. Do not leave me!"

Her voice broke at the end of her plea, a tremor of doubt rising in her throat like bile. She prayed that she hadn't lost her mind and that somehow, somewhere in the dark her angel really was nearby and could hear her. That he hadn't already left; for she couldn't go on without him. She didn't have the strength. She was only a child, lost and afraid of all the change that had come her way.

" _Wandering child, fear not. I am here with you, now and always. I shall stay by your side and teach you the ways of music, as you have wished for for so long now. For the music I see within your spirit is as brilliant and pure as the light within your soul, and for that you shall know my ways, young one. You needn't beg_."

Christine's heart glowed and a smile crept across her face as she closed her eyes and listened to the warm, deep voice of her angel. She spun around towards her father's picture, still glowing by the candlelight.

"Thank you, father," she whispered.

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	5. Years Gone By

Years Gone By

1867

 _Erik_

Erik watched in satisfaction from the rafters as Christine's voice soared above the other young girls' during their nightly rehearsal. She was growing to be a wonderful soprano, but Adelaide had unfortunately noticed and had grown rather suspicious. He'd received multiple concerned letters from her over the past four years, warning him against tutoring Christine after hours and interfering with her childhood. Adelaide had told him it was inappropriate, but Erik had never seen any harm in his teachings. He always made sure she had eaten prior to their lessons, and never kept her too late as to interfere with her sleeping patterns.

From their very first lesson she had seemed happier, and for that reason alone he would never apologize for his actions. Over the past few years he had seen her transform from a poor, lonely orphan into a sparkling gem amongst her peers. It had been a refreshing metamorphosis to witness. Instead of sulking about as she used to she now moved through life with the twirling feet of a dancer and the heart of a performer. She'd truly found inspiration in her angel.

As he had in her as well. He truly believed she had changed him for the better, giving him purpose he'd never thought he'd have. As he watched her grow and sing with more passion and heart each day, he found the music he wrote also following suit. He had even begun to take better care of himself, knowing that angels couldn't possibly fall ill and miss a lesson. He attempted to sleep more soundly and forced himself to eat more frequently. Due to these changes in his habits he had seen his reflection slowly change over time from that of a lanky teenager's to that of a man's. And all because he knew she was there each night, awaiting his tutelage.

"Christine, you were amazing!" He heard Meg say with wonder as the small blonde made her way across the studio to Christine's side. "When did you become such a beautiful singer? Surely you weren't this good when I first met you! Unless of course you were holding back so I wouldn't feel bad about myself!"

He watched as Christine blushed scarlet and laughed at her friend's joke. He lived for the moments when she smiled like that, so full of life and joy. He was happy she and Meg had gotten close over the years. He knew she needed more friends than just an opera ghost, even if it did sometimes distract from his teachings.

"If I held back it was only because I was envious of the best ballerina we have!" Christine shot back with a smile, hugging Meg tightly.

Adelaide brought her cane down onto the floor and the riveting sound silenced the chatter of the chorus girls. She looked upset about something, which Erik found odd considering he was used to hearing about distressing news well before the masses did. Why hadn't she told him if something was the matter? Sure, she wrote to him less now that he spent so much time with Christine, but he thought for sure she would always come to him first regarding news of the theatre.

"As you girls know, at the end of this term you are now considered fully trained youth ballerinas and are able to audition to join the main cast here at the Opera Populaire. Not all of you will make it into this company, and for that I apologize in advance. I remind you that space _is_ limited." She cleared her throat. "Now, of course there are other roles that need filling in this opera house but I suspect many of you will simply leave and audition elsewhere if rejected. But that will be for you and your parents to discuss when the time comes. The auditions will be in two weeks though, so do prepare yourselves if you plan to stay with us in the long run. Best of luck to each and every one of you."

Adelaide left the girls alone then to gossip amongst one another as to what dance they would be performing for their auditions. He noticed Christine thinking long and hard about her choice when Meg inquired as to what it would be. Erik found himself smiling at the depth of thought she gave the question as she looked up to Meg with a clueless look and desperate plea for help. He made a mental note to reassure her later that she had nothing to worry about. Anything she chose to perform she would do splendidly. After all, his older sister had taught her well.

* * *

1868

 _Christine_

Christine stood silently beside Meg backstage as one of the seamstresses took their measurements for the upcoming production of _La Cenerentola_. It was to be their first performance as full members of the company, and even though their choir parts were small, Christine was still abuzz with excitement. Meg giggled as the seamstress measuring her accidentally tickled her arm, and Christine shot her a look.

"Meg, may I remind you we are _professionals_ now," she teased in a motherly voice.

Meg put on a smug frown and waved her free arm dramatically up over her head, pointing one finger outwards towards Christine. "And may I remind _you_ , dear friend, that professionals or not we are still allowed to have a bit of fun when my mother isn't watching us."

Christine laughed for a moment as the seamstress before her brought the measuring tape up around her bust. Then she fell silent again, not wishing to disrupt the woman's work. The slightly larger women smirked at the tiny measurement she took, jotting it down on her notepad as she continued on. Christine blushed with embarrassment. She was only fourteen. She would have loved to know what amazing breasts this woman had had at her age that allowed her to snicker in such a mocking manner. Still, she couldn't help but sneak a glance over at her dearest friend, whose body was maturing far faster than her own.

Meg's hair had grown long and straight down her back, flowing and shining under every light she passed like rippling wheat in the sunshine. Her waist had stayed narrow from the corsets they all wore, but her chest and hips had grown ever curvier, giving her the look of a much older woman. Christine looked down at her own body and sighed. She was still slim as a board, looking just as boyish as always. She was glad their costumes for this opera were very feminine in appearance so that no one would mistake her for a male dancer by accident.

Fast footsteps sounded lightly around the corner as Mary Mercier, another young dancer from their days in the Youth Ballet, came into view. Christine looked up at her and noticed a look of barely containable gossip spread across her flushed, freckled face. Mary had become the self-proclaimed queen of gossip since they had joined the full company, always seeming to know things before anyone else. She was like a fly on the wall of every panel in the opera house, lurking and listening. She would always be the first to tell the other girls who was fired and hired, who had slept with whom, and when Mme. Giry was not to be crossed. It did worry Christine sometimes that Mary knew things about Meg's own mother faster than Meg herself did.

"Well?" Meg asked, probably also sensing that Mary would burst at the seams if she had to contain herself another moment, "Out with it! What did you hear now?"

"It's Clarette!" she announced, "She's leaving the Opera Populaire! Retiring, and right before the big show too!" She placed her hands on her hips. "It's a rather unprofessional step on her way out the door, _if_ you care to know my opinion." Her words causing even the seamstresses to stop what they were doing.

"Leavin'?" Meg's seamstress gasped in astonishment, speaking with her beautiful but heavily distinct southern accent. She waved her notepad at Mary. "Youn' lady, Clarette ha' been wit' dis opera for ten years now...who would be-a takin' her place if she were ta go? Hm?"

Christine could tell the seamstress was personally offended by Mary's news, and assumed she must have been one of the main dressmakers for the leading lady. Christine wondered if they were personal friends or if working with the same woman for ten years had simply been easier for her since there were no new measurements from day to day.

"An Italian woman, madame," Mary told the seamstress respectively, "Her name is Carlotta Piangi. Her and her husband Ubaldo will be joining the company for the upcoming production of _La Cenerentola_ as the leads." She looked from side to side slyly. "But you can't tell anyone," she added in a hushed voice, "They aren't announcing it yet."

"Clarette _is_ getting a little old for performance, Niamba. I think this will be a good thing," the seamstress working with Christine told her friend, "The poor woman needs her rest. Besides, she always talks about how she wants children. Maybe that's why she's leaving. To start a family. I for one think she would make a wonderful mother."

Christine was saddened to hear that the star of the Opera Populaire would be leaving before she would ever get to know her. She'd heard her perform when she was younger and had always looked up to her. She seemed kind and caring towards all members of the company, and would always smile and thank the orchestra personally after each and every rehearsal for all their hard work. Christine hoped La Carlotta would be just as inspiring, another fine role model to learn from.

* * *

 _Erik_

Erik tore open the envelope that held his monthly salary, sorting the bills into the wooden slots of his desk's top drawer. Twenty thousand francs was a lot of money to be paid monthly, and he made sure that when he wasn't tutoring Christine he was working hard to earn it. M. Lefevre had come to notice the opera ghost's interference in his productions and had thankfully accepted it as a blessing. Erik now wrote to both him and Adelaide his suggestions as to how the theatre should be run, and his suggestions were always taken to heart. Erik was prideful knowing that he now played a part in the productions he loved so much. He truly had become an artistic director of sorts over the years.

He knew Adelaide and Lefevre saw him as a genius, and that that was why they listened to his ideas. He wasn't foolish though, he also knew it was best to keep fear his accomplice as well, and so every few weeks he would continue to torment the company with stage issues, set pieces turned upside down, or falling pieces from the rafters. He was careful never to do such things with Christine around however. He never wanted himself to be someone she feared, even if she did only know him as her angel and not as the dreadful ghost.

He went to throw away the envelope that the money had been in when he noticed there was also a note stuck inside. He pulled it out and unfolded it, taking a few steps towards one of the many silver candelabras that lit his lair so he could read it better.

 _Monsieur Ghost,_

 _As my main artistic director I feel that I should inform you of Mme. Budetou's retirement form our company. I have a new leading soprano and tenor starting tonight that my talent scout has found. They will be on the main stage rehearsing the new production at six o'clock should you care to drop by or float about-whatever it is you do. Please, do let me know your opinion of them._

 _Your Obedient Servant,_

 _A. Lefevre_

Erik sighed and set the note down onto his desk. He had known for some time now that this day would come and he had to admit he would miss Clarette. Though nothing about her singing stood out to him in particular, she was still good. Very good in fact, and something in his gut told him that this new soprano wouldn't be worth whatever pedestal she thought she possessed. Unfortunately his own progeny wasn't yet ready to take the lead. In a few years perhaps, but not now. She was still too young.

* * *

1870

 _Christine_

"What an awful, awful woman!" Christine fumed under her breath, pacing backstage after rehearsal. "Calling us nobodies! Calling us amateurs - when we were here long before she! The nerve!"

She slumped down in defeat and sighed, running a hand through her damp, sweaty curls. She was exhausted, having just danced the same act for the fifth time tonight, all because the _diva_ had commanded extra practice on the piece. Why couldn't the prima dona practice the aria on her own? The background ballet was extremely difficult to perform, and Christine knew if she had to do it one more time tonight her legs may give out. She looked up to see a disheveled Meg rounding the curtain corner and taking a seat next to her, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I hate her," she said angrily in agreement to Christine's very thoughts, "She sings like a dying seagull and yet they eat it right up! I'm surprised the opera ghost hasn't made her disappear by now. I heard he's given her plenty of spooks, but If I were him I'd have tied her up and taken her out to the ally with the rest of the rotten food by now."

Christine was almost shocked at how vile the tone in Meg's voice was, but Carlotta had been draining all of them dry over the past two years and she understood where her friend's words sprung from. No one liked the new prima dona or her husband. They thought themselves better than everyone else, and were not afraid to say such. Christine couldn't count the amount of times she and Meg had been in the background of tonight's rehearsal dancing when all of a sudden the prima dona had tripped over her own two feet and turned to blame them.

"You ladies can go to bed," Christine heard a weary Mary say from a few feet away as the rest of the dancers followed suit, pouring backstage, "Carlotta stormed off for the night...praise God."

Meg stood up and yawned in relief, stretching her arms in a backwards arch above her head; Christine winced as she heard her shoulders make disgusting popping sound in response. They really needed to rest their muscles. Overworking like this was how injuries occurred.

"Praise God, indeed!" Meg agreed, offering Christine a hand. "Do you want to go to the washroom together?"

Christine gratefully took Meg's hand and was pulled to her feet. She hated to tell her friend no, but it was already two hours past when she normally met with her angel for their lesson. She was hoping he would understand her tardiness once she explained it to him.

"Sorry, but as gross as it sounds I think I need sleep more than a wash."

"Understandable," Meg said, believing the small white lie. "See you in the morning then!"

"In the morning!" Christine agreed with a smile. Tomorrow would be better. There wouldn't be any rehearsal since Mondays were their nights off. They would finally have some girl time to just relax after the long workweek.

By the time Christine made it to the chapel her feet were almost dragging from the exhaustion that had come tumbling over her like a wave. She yawned, trying to stifle the sight with the back of her hand. Not that she had to when no one was around, but still. To be a lady was to always practice one's manners, even alone. Her father had taught her that much.

She smiled softly then, opening the large wooden door to the prayer room and lighting her father's candle. She then paused and sat down on the stained glass window ledge in the back of the room, leaning her head against the cool glass, which was a wondrous relief from the headache she'd developed over the past five hours. She felt herself slowly beginning to comply with her body's request for rest. Her angel obviously wasn't here yet, and before her lesson, she needed just a moment or two to shut her eyes...

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	6. A Man in Love

A Man in Love

1870

 _Erik_

A moment after Christine had left for the chapel Erik began to follow her. He was impressed by the fact that even after the disgustingly brutal rehearsal the toad had put them through that she hadn't just followed the other girls to the dorms. But then again, Christine had never missed one of their lessons. That was one of the things Erik admired most about her. She was so devoted to her singing, even while being put under the stress of her dancing and Carlotta's moaning demands. That kind of dedication was the thing that would one day make Christine the most celebrated soprano in all of Paris. He smiled, picturing her as such as he took the long way around the corridors into the back of the chapel.

Coming through the doors, he paused as he saw Christine fast asleep, draped sideways across the ledge in front of the large red and gold stained glass window that towered towards the ceiling on the far wall. From where he stood he could see the moonlight pouring through and shinning down on her, illuminating her figure in the darkness. She seemed to glow before him, an angel sent to him from above. An angel who somehow still thought him to be one, miraculously.

He wondered briefly if he should awaken her, but knew he couldn't. He didn't want to frighten her, and a masked man would surely be a frightening sight to any young woman...

 _Young woman?_

He leaned his shoulder against the stone wall of the chapel. Just when had Christine gone from the sweet little girl he once knew into this astonishingly woman resting just a few feet away from him? And more importantly, when had he begun to see her as such?

He very quietly walked over to where she slept, standing above her, her guardian and protector in the blackness of the night. Her porcelain face was smooth and flawless, and her lips were the color of a dusty peony flower. Her long lashes and pale eyelids lightly covered wondrous chocolate eyes beneath, eyes that lit up every time they sang together. How different she was, asleep. This was not the passionate singer he knew, with a fire in her soul and zest for life. This was innocence and beauty in a way he hadn't thought of her before. Her flowing curls spilled around her face and the beige dress she'd worn to her rehearsal clung to the small yet womanly curves of her body. He noticed his gaze wondering down those curves, and quickly turned his head away in shame.

Who was he to look upon Christine in such a way? He was her teacher, her angel! Not a suitor, and definitely not a perverted stagehand stealing glances at ladies that weren't welcome! But still...she was no longer a child. He'd have to consider himself blind not to notice how beautiful she'd grown to be. He was sure the men in the audience noticed every time she went on stage in her dancer's costumes, the ones that were so tight one couldn't help but imagine. But he wasn't like other men, simply admiring her outer beauty. Other men didn't know her for who she was. But he did. He felt privileged knowing that she came to him every night, telling him first about her day and then what she wanted to sing for him. He loved listening to her speak, and almost died at the perfection of her voice when she sang. And as beautiful a woman as she was on the outside, he knew she was even more pure inside.

He turned back around as she moved slightly in her sleep, stretching her arm out over the stones a bit farther. She shivered as a cool draft came through the chapel, and Erik instantly went to her side once more and removed his cloak, laying it across her. She stopped shivering and pulled the dark fabric close to her body. A unknown but not unwelcome feeling went through Erik then. As he looked down at her face he realized just how devoted he had become in his care for Christine. How much he would give to make her smile, to help her in her career, or simply to just be there when she needed him like this.

He knew he would move mountains to hear her laugh, that he would die protecting her if things ever came to that. What was this feeling called? So raw and powerful and new inside of him? He hesitantly ran his gloved hand over the top of her hair, and she smiled in her sleep in response to his touch. It was in that smile that he realized the feeling inside of him to be love. He nearly gasped in amazement at his foolish heart. He, of all people, falling in love? But he knew it to be true, and saw no use denying such a fact.

"Who would have thought?" He whispered to himself, "A monster such as I, in love with such a divine angel as you."

He couldn't leave her to freeze in the chapel all night, and finally figured that with how exhausted she was she probably wouldn't wake up if he were to move her. So he held his breath and in one very fluent motion scooped her up in his arms. He was surprised at how light she was, and even more surprised at how much he loved the feeling of holding her body close to his. Her head rested on his chest, and for a moment he feared the nervous thumping of his heart would wake her. But she didn't stir. He carefully carried her down the hall towards the dorms, stopping every few feet to listen for anyone that might be roaming past the curfew. The sound of a door closing in a far distant hall made him nearly jump out of his skin.

What the devil was he doing? He was risking being caught, and all for her comfort! It was worth it to him though. Anything to have his Christine safe and sound. He counted the doors until he recognized hers and slowly opened it, hoping the hinge wouldn't make any noise. When he was sure it wouldn't, he swiftly took her inside and laid her across her small bed. He then realized she was still wrapped in his cloak, and wondered how he could take it back without waking her. Surely he couldn't just leave it? That would arise questions from Adelaide he wasn't prepared to answer. Not yet.

He looked around the plain room with disgust. It was so dull in character, not like the woman who inhabited it. He had always imagined her room being more colorful somehow. And yet when did she have time to decorate between her lessons, the company, and Meg? He shook the silly thoughts from his head. Now was not the time to doddle on foolish things such as his tastes in interior design.

Across the room he spotted a spare blanket, draped over the oak colored chair in front of her very simple vanity. He spread it out with his arms, hoping the thin fabric would make do for tonight. He removed his cloak from atop her and quickly replaced it with the blanket. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, and he almost stopped breathing before he realized she was still mostly asleep. He hummed a soft lullaby to her and within seconds her eyes shut tight again and she rolled over in bed. Erik took that as his opportunity to escape back into the welcoming night where things made sense to him.

Walking down the stairs to his lair he paused with the new realization of his love for Christine. What could he do now, knowing how he felt about her? How could he stay away from her in their lessons, merely a ghost of a man, a voice from the walls, when he longed so much to hold her in his arms again? He let out a frustrated groan and hit his fist against the wall, feeling the soreness sting through his glove. Life wasn't fair. He'd learned that years ago. And it seemed life would always be unfair to him. Every time he felt happiness, happiness would go away just as soon as it came. One day Christine would go away too. He knew that. She'd become a star under his influence, and would become a prima dona unlike the world has never known. It wouldn't take long for a suitor to ask for hand after that.

Feeling defeated, Erik continued down the long path to his home and eventually found himself perched at his organ bench. His fingers flew against the ivory keys in an angry yet beautiful way as he tried to make sense of his clustered thoughts. Before he knew it he found himself composing, hours on end into the long night. Love inspired a great many things, he discovered. Happiness, anger, lust, and a dreadful confusion that left you thoroughly sore throughout.

And also, it seemed, the start of a score for an opera. He looked down at the notes he had begun to scribble, thinking only of Christine's voice singing them and the perfection that would be. How his Christine loved music. How they were one in the same when it came to music. Perhaps somehow, music could be what brought them together one day. His music...no! _Their_ music. She was his muse, his light in the darkness, and any opera he composed would only be because of her graceful influence.

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	7. Angel or Man

Angel or Man

1870

 _Christine_

Christine awoke that morning with a sense of confusion as she looked down at the blanket that covered her. It was her spare, for when the winter came, and she usual kept it over the back of her vanity chair to muffle the creak it made when she brushed her hair at night. Had she brought it to bed last night? She sat up and rubbed the haze from her eyes and stretched her neck to the side until it cracked in blissful release. It was then that she looked down and realized she still wore her beige dancers' dress from the previous night's rehearsal. Normally that wouldn't have been unusual, because there were plenty of nights when sleep overcame her so quickly she didn't bother changing. But she didn't remember coming to her dorm last night, unless she had slept-walked there. She clearly recalled that she had gone to the chapel, for her singing lesson with her angel.

 _Her angel! Oh no!_ She'd missed her lesson with him! How horrible she was, to disrespect her teacher in such a manner! It was bad enough if she were to be late but to wander back to her dorm and skip out on his teachings all together? How had he even allowed such a thing? The angel of music was usually very strict with her, and she prided in being punctual to their lessons. After all, it was only through his teachings that she had come as far as she had. She hoped he wasn't disappointed by her absence. She thought of them as friends, in a way. And friends didn't skimp out on each other. Meg had taught her that.

She mumbled non-coherent thoughts under her breath as she stood up and began to fold the spare blanket back up to its proper shape. As she spread her arms wide though she noticed an unusual scent drift past her nose, coming from her clothes and hair as she moved. It was a masculine scent that smelled of musk, ebony wood, and something else she couldn't quite name but liked rather much. Setting the blanket down she tentatively took a strand of her hair and breathed it in. She wasn't imaging things. She smelt like a man's cologne. A very _masculine_ man's cologne, she thought was a giggle. Then she froze in horror.

Why did she have a man's cologne on her? What had happened last night? She racked her brain trying to think, but couldn't puzzle together how she had gotten from the chapel back to her room. Her mind buzzing, she quickly changed into her sky blue day dress and wandered down the wall into the washroom to scrub her face. When the water finally came up from the pipes it was cold and unforgiving, leaving her skin bright pink and flushed. Still, at least it did away with some of the scent that still clung to her. After all, she didn't want Meg to ask questions she didn't have the answer to. She was certainly not one to entertain men, especially not after hours! In fact the only man in her life was her angel of music, and he-!

Christine looked up into the washroom mirror and blinked a few times to process her next thought as it came in a rush. She had most definitely gone to see her angel the previous night. She'd laid down on the window ledge...and had fallen asleep! She barely weighed anything, she knew that, and someone could have easily lifted her up and carried her to her dorm. And who was the _only_ one who knew she went to see her angel every night? Why, only her angel himself! If he even _was_ an angel. She scoffed. Angels didn't carry ballerinas through the halls and tuck them into bed! That was ludicrous! Absolute nonsense! But then again, so was the notion of an angel teaching you music after your dead father had sent him to you as a child.

Could her angel be just a man? A fraud? No, he couldn't be. He couldn't just be human - not with that melodic voice of his! She'd grown up with him, she trusted him completely. But could he have been lying to her this entire time? Had her father been the true liar all along? Her eyes began to sting and water as confusion clouded her head. She knew she shouldn't jump to conclusions like this, not now. Not when life had been so good to her these past few years. Her angel was her closest friend, her guardian. Surely if she asked him he would tell her the truth. She told him everything, why shouldn't it be his turn? She decided then. Tonight she would confront her angel, and find out if he was indeed angel or merely man.

But what man could hide so well in the opera house that no one would know he was there? Why had she never seen him? Her eyes went wide as she thought of the opera ghost the ballet girls always raved on about. Could her angel and the ghost be one in the same man? She groaned, slapping her face with her hands. This was all too much for one morning. She needed to breathe. Thankfully, Meg was coming out of her dorm when she went back into the hall, and called after her.

Christine was grateful for the distraction as they left the opera house to eat breakfast at the small cafe around the corner. There, she could relax her reeling mind for a few moments and attempt to enjoy her day with Meg. She ordered a chocolate croissant and tea and smiled earnestly as the sweetness and warmth soothed her entire body. Meg chitchatted on about the possibility of her and her mother getting a weekend away after the season was out, and Christine nodded along as she spoke.

"I was thinking of asking her if we could go to the sea," Meg continued with excitement, "I've never seen it before. Have you?"

Christine paused for a moment, the question taking her by surprise. "I have," she replied almost wistfully, "For a short time my father and I lived by the sea when I was little."

"Oh," Meg replied, knowing that talk of her father made her uncomfortable.

"It's fine Meg," Christine reassured her, taking a sip of her tea, "I'm getting better at talking about him, really I am."

"I just wish he could see the woman you've become," Meg told her truthfully, "If he could hear you sing...oh Christine, he'd be so proud of you."

* * *

Christine left a few coins on the cafe table for the waiter as she and Meg collected their things and headed back towards the opera house. Meg had told Christine she had plans to work with her mother on a new routine but didn't want Christine to see it until it was ready, which was fine with her. She had business to attend to that evening, and needed time to organize her thoughts and plan what to say to her angel when the time came. She couldn't believe how slowly the clock ticked away throughout the remainder of the day as she waited for nine to come, and by eight o'clock she was already in the chapel, pacing back and forth like a madwoman and mumbling to herself about what a fool she was.

With a shaking hand she turned to light her father's candle, remembering that he was her true guidance in everything she did. She carried Gustave Daae's memory with her always and would not forget about him, even in times of stress. The match she used to light the candle quickly spread up the stick and burned the tip of her finger as she tossed it to the ground with a yelp. She bent down and picked it up from the stone floor and tossed it into the bin on the side of the memorial altar with frustration. Her fingertip was red from the small burn and she shook her head at how careless she could be sometimes. _Careless enough to still come to the chapel alone, knowing that a man could be waiting for me in the darkness_ , she thought with a fright.

"No. He wouldn't hurt me," she whispered to himself, "He's my angel. My protector."

Yet no matter how much she repeated that mantra in her head it did little to settle her nerves. If her angel, or the phantom, or whoever he was _were_ indeed just a man, why hadn't he revealed himself to her? After all her years of blind faith why had he not reciprocated even a fragment of that same kindness? The nerve of him! She would not be played or toyed around with. She was a grown woman who could no longer afford to live in the fantasy she'd created for herself to escape the sadness of her childhood. She wanted answers and she wanted them now.

 _"Why so troubled, Christine?"_

The deep voice of her angel suddenly appeared all around her, making her jump in her skin. It seemed to come from no where and everywhere at once. Though the tone was deep and soothing, Christine didn't give in to his lullaby sound. She would not allow herself to get entranced by him tonight. Instead she furrowed her brows together in frustration and anger, spinning back and forth to try to pinpoint where he was. But the room was dark and the night cold as ever. Nothing stirred around her. Her eyes watered in fear as the unknown confused her mind and tore at her heart.

"Angel or phantom, friend or demon? Who is it there, hiding the dark!" she demanded through clenched teeth, squeezing her fists by her side until her nails dug into her palms.

 _"Why, dear Christine, do you ask questions you already know that answer to?"_ the voice asked, slowly. " _You are not a child. You are a very intelligent woman. Tell me what it is that you believe."_

"I believe you are a fraud!" she yelled, facing the stone angel in the room so she could have a focal point to shout at. "I believe you lied to me about being an angel, and that you are indeed just a man - as well as the phantom of the opera house!"

The voice chuckled in the blackness, the sound bouncing back and forth in the air. _"So smart, Christine. So very bright indeed. I was wondering when this day would come. Wondering...and dreading it too."_

She let out a shaky breath as a tear slid down her cheek. This couldn't be happening. But of course it was, simply for that reason alone. All of her dreams and desires began to crumble around her as some unknown man in the night watched from the wings, preying on her innocence and nativity. What a fool she had been, to believe this man had been her savior! He was a ghost, a terror! And worst of all, a liar. Her truest friend and guardian, borne of lies and deception.

"Angel of music, you deceived me," she whimpered through a sob, "And after I gave you my mind so blindly...after I gave all that I am..."

She suddenly felt the world spinning and lost control of her legs as her knees gave out. The darkness overtook her doubling vision then and, overwhelmed and worn through, she passed out and was left to the phantom's mercy.

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 **Please remember to review, good people!**

 **Your Obedient Servant,**

 **N. G.**


	8. The Phantom of the Opera

The Phantom of the Opera

1870

 _Erik_

Erik ran from his hiding place in the shadows of the chapel as Christine's body fell to the cold stone floor. He dropped to his knees by her side and slipped his hand behind her shoulder blades, raising her up into the candlelight so that he could inspect her for injury. She was limp and still as death as his free hand ran down the back of her head, making sure she hadn't struck it when she fainted. He breathed out a sigh of relief when he found no blood, grateful that he hadn't caused her any harm. He hadn't meant for her to react like this. To invoke such fear or anger in her; so much so as to nearly cause her physical damage. All he had ever wanted was to make her happy. To protect her from the world and dismiss all that would cause her ill-heartedness and tears. Yet he himself had been the one to make her weep tonight.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," he whispered, pulling her close to his chest in an embrace. His aching heart yearned to comfort her, to let her know that all he did for her was out of love. He gently kissed the top of her hair apologetically and hooked his other arm under her knees so

he could carry her as he had the night before. He thought first about taking her back to her room, but then feared she would awake in a panic, still uncertain of him and where they stood. No, he couldn't allow that. If he wanted her to accept him again, he would have to talk to her. Work things out and make her understand where he stood.

He made his way around the corner of the small room and pressed on the stone wall behind the statue of the three saints. A cut in the wall the size of a door shifted and fell open, revealing the long dark passageway towards his lair. He ducked his head under the frame and turned his body slightly to the side, sliding into the poorly lit darkness. Christine stirred ever so slightly for a second in his arms as the cold draft arose and hit them from all sides.

As he descended farther and farther down into the passageway doubts began to fill his mind as to whether or not bringing her to his home was the best course of action to take.

* * *

 _Christine_

Christine's head was dizzy as she felt herself being moved. There was a firm yet tender grip behind her upper back and underneath her legs. She felt freezing air hitting her exposed skin, and also a great warmth to her right side. Her eyes fluttered opened slowly after a moment, and what she saw she couldn't believe. Every muscle in her body wanted to flinch in surprise, yet somehow she shut off the urge. Carrying her through a poorly lit cavern was a man. A man she almost couldn't fathom to be real. She knew him at once to be her angel of music. He had to be. For he was beautiful like an angel. From where she lay in his arms she could see the smooth, pale skin of his left face, a face defined by hardened cheekbones and striking golden eyes. His hair was such a dark brunette it almost appeared black, and was smoothed back in an elegant fashion. His expression was calm, yet he was obviously lost in some faraway thought.

She knew she should have been frightened. She hadn't a clue as to where this man was taking her. Yet there in his arms was the safest feeling she had ever felt. The way he held her was strength and protection. She felt the anger she'd held in all day evaporate as a wave of trust in this man washed over her. So what if he lied to her? It had only been to protect her, she realized. As a child of barely nine years old would she have allowed him to comfort her? Surely not. But he had not come to her as a man, but as an angel. He'd come to her the way she'd needed him to back then. And for that she was still grateful. Grateful for the song in her heart and the way he had pulled her from her sorrows.

"Christine, I know that you're awake. Would you like to walk now or shall I continue to carry you?" the man asked her with a smirk, turning his face to look down at her. In that turn of head she could now see that the entire right side of his face was covered in a stark porcelain mask that went from the top of his hairline, over most of his nose, and down to his chin. _Just like Buquet told us_ , she thought with a shiver, studying it with curiosity before blinking with embarrassment at the thought of him continuing to carry her.

"I...I can walk," she managed to whisper to him, staring up into his golden eyes with wonder. She'd always imagined what her angel would look like, and now that she saw him part of her never wanted to look away ever again, in fear that he might vanish. He replied to her words with a sweet smile and gently lowered her towards the ground until she could find her footing on what she saw to be a long descending staircase. As she stood next to him she noticed he was a rather tall man. Granted, she was short in stature but still, the way he loomed she suspected he was at least a head and a half taller. It would have been intimidating if he hadn't been looking at her so tenderly in that moment.

He silently raised a single leather-gloved hand in her direction, a question glowing in his eyes. She couldn't help but return a shy yet decisive smile as she raised her hand forward without hesitation and gently placed it atop his palm. His eyes seemed to light up in response as he closed his fingers around her small ones and led her farther down the stairway. She almost couldn't believe how she felt inside, standing behind him as they walked together. This was her angel, made flesh. Part of her was full of wonder, another part apprehension. He was, after all, the infamous phantom. She had no doubt of that now after seeing his mask.

"It's been you all along," she stated wistfully into the blackness that surrounded them. "You were my angel all these years. That voice which sang to me in my dreams and whispered my name in the chapel." Only a few stray torches burned on the staircase, illuminating their way every few feet. Other than that it was as if they were in a void.

She was surprised when she saw her angel turn back towards her, a look of passion so fierce in his features that she almost lost her breath. Trying not to show him just how much he captivated her in that moment, she turned slightly, forcing her eyes to look away.

"It was," he admitted, almost regretfully. "This strange duet of ours, this...this facade. It was all my doing. But please, do not turn away from me. You have to trust that I had my reasons for deceiving you." His voice was almost pleading.

Christine had never seen him physically speak. She had only ever heard his voice in dark whispers and lyrics in the echos of the chapel. Turning back and seeing actual words form and leave his lips was surreal to her. Enchanting. Yet the mask he wore was so out of character from the sweet and devoted teacher she knew. The mask of phantom.

"Because of your face." She wasn't simple. She knew the rumors. "Those who see your face draw back in fear and cowardice. It scares them."

"And for a good reason," he added darkly as they reached the bottom of the staircase. He reached up and pulled one of the torches from its home on the stony wall and led her down a tall, open tunnel. She could hear water in the distance, and wondered if the river Seine that ran through Paris also flowed beneath the earth of the opera house.

They reached the end of the tunnel and a large glassy lake met Christine's gaze. It seemed to go on and on throughout the cavern endlessly, into its own system of tunnels that led who knows where. Her angel led her to the shore where she noticed a gothic style gondola docked and bobbing in the wait. He placed the torch in its holder at the helm and took in his hand the long steering oar that leaned against it. Then he gestured for her to step into the boat.

"If you can find it within your heart to forgive me...to trust me again than please, come with me Christine. There's a world I want to show you."

She hesitated, staring off into the dark emptiness and cold water before them. She wondered how deep the icy black lake he stood upon truly ran. How quickly one could sink to the bottom of it and become lost forever. It frightened her. This water was very different from that of the sea, all blue and cool and kind. This water was that of the unknown. To cross it she would have to trust him, as he stated, and with her life it seemed. Two days ago if the voice of her angel had asked her to cross this water she would've stripped herself bare and swam across it without fear. Here and now though it meant trusting the phantom, a being who lived to cause chaos and could just as easier harm her as he could save her. Though looking into his eyes she knew under what others claimed him to be he was still her maestro, still the voice that had always urged her to think of her well-being and safety before anything else. Still her angel.

His eyes were frightened as she went to take a step, and she knew very well why. This was a pivotal moment for the both of them. If she chose to turn and flee now, to race up the stairs, this may very well be the last time they ever encountered one another. This would all become a distant memory and nothing more. For that reason she stepped forward and climbed into the boat. There was still to much to figure out, too much of him she didn't know to let him vanish forever, to part their separate ways. He seemed to exhale a sigh of relief as he turned from her and began to steer them through the tunnels.

Christine couldn't believe her eyes when the small turn they'd eventually taken opened up to reveal a large room, settled like an island at the end on the cavern. Various silver candelabras of all shapes and sizes were lit throughout it, causing it to glow softly in splendor. A large pipe organ was nestled off to the farthest left side, splendorous and polished. She also noticed several other instruments strewn nearby it, leaning against the back wall, a wall with large mirrors leaning against the stone, mostly concealed by blood red velvet drapes. She wondered why he felt the need to hide from his own reflection, and once more thought about what secrets lay beneath that mask of his.

"Sing for me," he commanded her, bringing the gondola to a stop at the shore. The way he spoke was not a request, but an order from a teacher to his student. This was normalcy for them, something she could happily oblige in. Still in awe of the magic that was his home she began to sing, a soft piece they had worked on the previous week. It seemed to suit the scenery, the song she chose an Italian lullaby about a little girl lost in a magic wood. As she sang she continued to look around and realized just how much this lake home seemed to suit the angel she'd come to know. It was warm and artistic and most of all mysterious. She continued vocalizing softly for him at they exited the boat and stepped up onto the rocky platform of the island. She then sang higher and higher notes until she reached the high E natural they'd been working on during their last rehearsal. She then stood there, slightly out of breath as she waited for him to say something. Anything.

"Perfection," was the word he chose, speaking softly to her with perfect eye contact. That gaze made her knees weak. Something about the power in his eyes was almost overbearing, yet too promising to be seen as anything foreboding. He turned towards his home, gesturing at it with his arms wide open as if to say welcome. He then began to sing to her in return. She couldn't say a word as his perfect tenor resonated throughout the cavern. He sang in a foreign and captivating tongue, a song that seemed vaguely familiar yet completely unknown all the same. It captured her, and as he moved throughout the cavern and sang she couldn't help but follow, trailing him as he drifted around the platform. She felt her eyes closing as she smiled at the divine essence that was his voice. She savored it. She felt herself being pulled into his music in a way she had never felt before. His final note trailed off and suddenly she felt his arms encircling her from behind. A shudder went down her spine at the sensation of his body so close to hers and she opened her eyes.

"No, keep you eyes closed," he instructed her gently. She smiled softly and played alone, lightly shutting them once more as she listened to him move closer towards her. "Now...leave all thoughts of the world you knew before behind. Let your spirit start to soar. Listen to the water, how it moves...and to the wind that flows, even here. After a while it begins to feel as though you're floating with it, falling almost. It's a sweet intoxication. This feeling doesn't exist above. I want you to learn it."

His hands found hers as he spoke, and she let him intertwine them together as she focused on what he was telling her. It was true, the power this place held. Closing her eyes she no longer saw it as a place of mere darkness, but as a place of life. Water and air where water and air should not exist. A world all its own, a world that thrived in a place meant to be long forgotten. She found herself leaning back into his chest as she simply listened to the sounds of his home, feeling the feeling he described to her exactly how he'd said it would feel. Feeling like she could float away with the breeze yet would stay anchored as long as he was there.

Her moment of tranquility was finally interrupted as he spoke. "I take it you have chosen to trust me...to allow me to touch you, to touch me in return. If I didn't know better I'd say you were even savoring this sensation." He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze as he spoke, and she felt her hand almost numbing in response, proving his point to be true. He wound her around in his arms slowly and gazed down at their joined hands. "It's alright, you know," he added, to reassure her. "To let this dream overtake you, to let a small amount of your darker side give in _._ There's a harmony here, one which dreams alone could write. Or you, if you chose to. Simply say yes and we'll write it together."

As his voice faded into closure, he dropped her hands and wound his arms behind her back, pulling her towards him so they were mere inches apart. She found that her hands stayed adrift when he let them go, and she let them come to rest on his chest. Under her small palms she could feel his heart racing. It may have been fluttering even faster than her own, but she wasn't breaking the moment to count. She was gazing up, lost in his eyes, lost from her world and safety tucked away in the magical one he'd created for them. Contemplating the offer he had just given her.

Perhaps it was his music that drew her to him so much like a moth to candlelight. Or perhaps it was the way his eyes shown with depths of admiration as he looked into hers while gently sliding one hand to hold the back of her neck. Or perhaps it was a pull beyond both of their control. Some force Christine couldn't describe as she closed her eyes and stretched up on her toes to bring herself closer to him. Whatever it was, she couldn't imagine anywhere else she would've rather been in that moment then standing in her angel's arms, her lips inches from his.

And yet she found herself filling with confliction as she turned away from the kiss she yearned for - the kiss of her angel.

"Wait."

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* * *

 **I took lyrics from both the duet and Music of the Night to write the dialogue for this chapter and I love love love the result. Let me now your thoughts! How was the proposal? Much less creepy without the (sex) doll, right? And what of poor Christine? How would you feel in her shoes right about now? Hesitant or all in?**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole G.**


	9. Heaven's Light

Heaven's Light

1870

 _Erik_

"Wait."

The bliss of the moment was shattered like glass as Christine gently pulled herself from Erik's arms and took a step to the side, turning her face away from him. He watched her back as she sighed with frustration and ran her fingers over the top of her head through her hair. What he could have done wrong was all he could wonder as he heard her exhale a sharp breath. He let her have the space she obviously desired, and stayed put where he was as he waited for her to collect herself.

"I don't even know your name," he finally heard her say in a low, soft voice as she hugged her arms around her waist timidly and finally turned back towards him. He watched a thousand and one questions glimmering in her saddening eyes as he internally began to kick himself for being so insensible in regards towards her feelings. He took a step towards her, once again closing the distance between them, and reached out to tilt her face upwards so that he could stare into her eyes. Oh, those eyes. He could lose himself in them any day; so brown and beautiful, like the earth after a fresh rain.

"Erik," he told her simply.

It was odd for Erik to say his name aloud. He couldn't recall the last time he had had to use it. It had been nearly twenty years since Adelaide had rescued him and he could vaguely recall telling her his name then. But had he really been a nameless ghost to humankind for so many years since that night? He almost had to laugh at the fact that almost two decades had passed since the last time he'd introduced himself to a person face-to-face.

Even before Adelaide, his name had been unspoken for years. He'd been known as the Devil's Child for the most part, as well as other cruel titles. "Bastard" and "Shit" had been common when his caretaker was too drunk to remember the very stage name he'd bestowed upon him. Erik was surprised they hadn't beaten his name out of him along with the rest of his dignity. But then again, he'd always made sure to hold onto it, for it was all he had. He recalled an entire night once where he had laid bleeding against he bars of his cage, barely a child of five, knees to chest, repeating his name in a mantra like a prayer. It had been what kept him human, kept him with the hope that one day his mother would return for him. Without that glimmer of hope maybe he would have turned into the very animal they'd thought him to be.

"Erik," she repeated back to him with a smile. He felt something inside of him glow at the way she said his name. She spoke it as if it left a sweet taste on her tongue. He almost couldn't believe that an angel as perfect as she could even know him by first name. It was too surreal a moment for him to believe, almost as if the past had completely vanished for a second and that life had always been pure. Always been filled with Christine and her kind heart.

"Well _Erik_ ," she continued, a blush rising in her cheeks, "Where do we go from here?"

Erik was taken aback and dumbfounded by her question. To be completely honest, he didn't know. There wasn't any clear answer he could give her. He had never planned on falling for Christine and had certainly never planned on being presented with the opportunity to court her. Moments ago he had been swept up in the just that, the moment. But none of this had been planned. The plan had always been to help her with her gift of a voice and then set her free to bewitch the world. Could he hold her back from that premise now that he had a chance to be with her in the way that he desired?

He was no good for her. The harsh truth stung in his mind like a wasp's bite but he knew he didn't have an argument against it. What could he possibly give her in this life? His music? He'd done that. He didn't have anything else. No titles, no land, and no past. Money he had. But what could he provide for her that no other, less deformed of a suitor could?

"I don't know," he replied, trying to collect himself as doubts clouded his thoughts, "But tonight has been a long night. I should be getting you back to the opera house. It's late and you need your rest."

Her face fell in disappointment as he guided her back down to his gondola. As she stepped in she turned to him, raising one small finger pointed directly at his chest.

"I'm not a child anymore, you know," she told him firmly, "You'd be wise to remember that."

"I know Christine," he sighed with a curt laugh. "Believe me, I know."

As he led her back through the tunnels and up the stairs the darkness around them seemed thick to Erik, as if it were taunting him for not being braver and telling her all he knew she desired to hear and all he desired to tell her. Yet they made their journey in silence, and it wasn't until they where near the top of the staircase that Erik had the courage within him to turn back and face her. When he did he saw the sadness of the world reflected in her eyes.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked flatly as he met her gaze, "You seem awful eager to be rid of me all of sudden."

Erik pushed open the stone door and they exited his tomb back into the room of God. He reached for Christine and pulled her close in an embrace and nearly laughed. There was something about his Christine thinking there was anything she could ever do to make him want her gone that seemed ludicrous.

"My dear Christine," he said, "Don't you know how perfect you are? Can you not fathom what kind of madman I would have to be to ever wish you gone from my presence?"

"Yet still you send me away, even after asking me to stay!" He felt her squeeze his coat tighter for a moment before releasing herself to lean back and look up at him. "I'm sorry. I do not mean to be rude. Maybe I am simply afraid that this has all been a dream. I am worried that tomorrow I will wake up and you will once again be a ghost in the walls. Nothing more than a voice in my head. But I wish for you to be real. You, Erik! The man. Please, allow me to get to know you for who you really are."

"Christine, I promise you will know me in time. I owe you that much. But my story is not a joyful one and it will bring me a great deal of pain to tell it. Please understand that I need a small amount of time before I am ready."

She seemed to understand as her eyes softened and she nodded.

"I would never wish you pain. When you are ready, then."

He seemed to freeze in place as she rose up on her toes and swiftly placed a chaste kiss upon his cheek before wishing him a goodnight and disappearing through the exit of the chapel door, making her way to her room. Erik smiled to himself as he watched her go and raised his hand up to his cheek, still feeling the lingering ghostly sensation of her touch. To be touched by such an angel was truly a gift to him.

Not feeling exhausted in the least, Erik stole his way back to his lair as new inspiration for music seared through him. He could not contain the joy in his heart as he began to compose lyrics in his head. Whereas he would usually compose using his organ or piano, tonight he seemed to gravitate towards his violin, which he rarely used. It was nestled in its case behind his piano, and its casing had a thin layer of dust atop it. Erik took off his leather gloves and tossed them on the lid of the piano before bending down to unhook the hinges on the violin case. Inside the case was a truly beautiful work of craftsmanship that always left him in awe.

The wooden instrument was worn with age, and had been one of the very first instruments Adelaide had stolen for him in his early years at he opera house. It had once belonged to their first chair violinist, who was arrested for being drunk and causing a fight at an after party in the lobby. Adelaide, mischievous in her younger age, had heard news of his arrest and quickly robbed the instrument away from its place in the pit where he kept it.

Erik sat at his piano bench, leaning his back against the grand instrument as he tuned his violin. He sat there as he pondered his life and how it had changed so suddenly in just a few days. He'd never before thought of himself as someone who could one day have a wife, or a family at all for that matter. And yet he couldn't shake the images of the blush in Christine's cheeks or the way she had kissed his face. Now anything seemed possible. Now he had dreams such as those and so many more.

Which frightened him, yet also excited him greatly. The more he thought of it the more he knew that he and Christine were meant to be. He couldn't imagine ever being with anyone else besides her. No, without Christine his life would continue to be that of a ghost's as he slowly rotted away underground. Perhaps she was his saving grace, the thing that would lead him out of the darkness and into the light. Perhaps it was time. He'd hidden from the world long enough, a phantom to all. Could they now come to see him as he truly was? As a man and an artist?

A horrifying image played through Erik's mind as he suddenly imagined himself walking in public with Christine on his arm. He saw a stranger tear away his mask and felt the crowd around him grow shocked as they began to shout their revulsion. A faceless woman started pulling Christine away from him into their midst and a child cried in fear from somewhere he couldn't see as they surrounded him and swallowed him whole. The images were almost to much to bare, they were crippling.

No, they would never see him as a man. He knew that. And he couldn't give the world the chance to expose his true face. Not again. People would only ever see him as a monster and he couldn't risk Christine being dragged down with him if he were to fall prey to their vicious appetite and hatred of things they didn't understand.

He began to play a slow, depressing melody on the violin as his good mood diminished with the vision. At least with his music, in his home, he knew he was safe. Knew the world could never find him. But he couldn't hide Christine away from the world. She was a gift to it, one that deserved to sparkle in the sunlight of every city. He wished, not for the first time, that he had been born a normal man, so that he could share in that light with her instead of rotting away in the bowels of Hell. But demons didn't deserve the light of angels'. Heaven's light was not meant for him.

Erik began to sing as he played, trying to clear his head, eventually changing the depressing tune he played to one more hopeful in an attempt to regain his sanity. The effect worked, lulling him back into the content feeling he had felt before. The vision in his head changed. He saw himself, standing as a normal man, on a stage singing a duet with Christine. The audience around them roared with applause as they ran backstage and stole a kiss in the darkness of the curtains. He saw in that change of vision such raw hope. Something about being around Christine had made him feel so human tonight, so deserving of a real life. And maybe there was hope after all. She hadn't wanted to leave him after all. He smiled and raised the scale of the tune he played as he stood up and played with new vigor. By the time he had finished the song he simply stood there in awe as he realized:

"She kissed me..." He spoke the words, as if to say them aloud would make it all the more real. "She kissed her Erik...of her own free will!"

He stood there as he listened to his voice carry loudly throughout the cavern of his prison. He decided in that moment he would not die down here in the dark alone. He had reason to live, to thrive. To attempt to join the world above. And he would do it. Only for Christine he would do it. He would not bring her shame and loathing. He would make her proud and be someone that could be seen by her side - be it out on a city street or on the stage. They would one day stand side by side together and live a happy, normal life. The kind of life they both deserved after going through so much in their lonely pasts.

Erik set his violin down and turned towards one of the mirrors he had leaning against the back wall. He whipped the crimson curtain that was draped over it aside and stared as his reflection with harsh determination. He studied the right side of his face, covered in the bright white mask he'd adorned so many years now. It was the mask of a ghost. He couldn't show _this_ mask to the world. Surely that was what his vision had warned! But what to do? He fumed. He was an illusionist, dammit. He could make himself look more man than monster if only he tried harder!

He began to ponder how to do this, and when the idea came to him it seemed almost too simple to work. But there was much to be done if was to join the world above. He began itemizing lists in his head and jotting down notes on the closest piece of parchment he could find. Within minutes he had a very elaborate plan drawn up. It would takes days, many even weeks, to complete. But afterwards he would be free of his prison. Free to join Christine, the opera house, and the entire world above! For the first time in Erik's life, he soared with high spirits. For he could be a good, normal man for his Christine! He could build them a good life! He knew he could!

But before he could do any of that, before he could toss away the white mask and become Erik Destler once more, the phantom of the opera had one more job to do.

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 **Please review as you go!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	10. Christine's Lament

Christine's Lament

1870

 _Christine_

The next day Christine found herself smiling all throughout the rehearsal for _Hannibal_. Opening night was only two weeks away now, and whereas she normally would have been drained by Carlotta's diva antics, today she found herself barely paying any attention to them at all. As she danced and sang she felt as though she was floating above everyone around her, lost in her own little world.

As she replayed the previous night in her head over and over again, she found that she couldn't shake certain feelings from consuming her. They were feelings so new and foreign, but she loved them none the less. She found she couldn't shake thoughts of Erik from her mind for even just a moment. At one point in the day she found herself leaning against the side of the stage during their break, and recalled at once his body behind hers as he'd held her tightly and whispered to her. Perhaps she'd started to daydream then, for when she turned around she saw Meg giving her curious looks. Christine just smiled in response. She didn't care if Meg thought she was turning insane from the exhaustion of the rehearsals. She couldn't hide her happiness, nor did she feel like she had to.

Because her angel of music, her guardian and teacher, her spirit in the darkness was _real_. A real man of flesh and bone and a soul so beautiful that it captivated her ever so much just to stand by his side. And when she'd seen him sing, directly to her, she'd felt a pull towards him she'd never experienced with anyone else in her life. She wished right then and there that he could be near, to hold her in his arms again. Oh, how blissful that feeling had been. The protection she'd always felt from his voice, she'd felt tenfold in his embraces. And when he'd nearly kissed her...

Oh, how foolish she'd been to pull herself away from him! To ruin such a beautiful moment and deny herself what they both needed so badly to discover in one another. She'd wanted that kiss so badly, but her better judgement had been weary, and the moment had fled just as soon as it had appeared. Would she allow him to kiss her tonight? Was that proper? With her music always being the priority in her life she had never had time to have such a talk with Mme. Giry, whom was as close to a mother figure as she would ever get.

She honestly didn't want to have that kind of conversation with the Madame though. What if she pried and wanted to know about the man that captivated her enough to spur such questions? She'd always known that the phantom of the opera and Mme. Giry knew each other, but to what relation? Work partners, family, or simply friends? Would she be offended, or scared for her safety if she were to say it was him? For all Christine knew the two of them could be enemies who simply tolerated each other's existence.

She would slyly see if Meg knew anything of courtship in the morning before they left the dorms. Right now though, as the curtain fell on their dress rehearsal, Christine couldn't rid herself of the stage fast enough. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird's as she quickly changed and stole a glance at herself in one of the dressing room mirrors to make sure she looked presentable. She glanced around and spotted on one of the tiny vanities a small perfume bottle that someone had left sitting around. Sneakily, she sprayed the floral scent on herself and laughed, thinking how silly she must have looked in that last minute attempt to spruce up before she began to cross through the dark halls.

Bursting with excitement, she took a calming breath before pushing open the door to the chapel. She was right on time tonight for their usual singing lesson. Though perhaps tonight they could talk instead of sing together. There was so much Christine still wanted to know about her mysterious angel. As she walked into the dark room she smiled and nodded a greeting at the statue of her familiar stone angel. She then preceded to light her father's candle, seeing the warm flame-light dance off his portrait. Afterwards, she perched herself on the ledge of the stained glass window and began to go through her warm ups as she waited for Erik to arrive. After about twenty minutes though she began to frown, wondering what was keeping him. Not once before had he ever been late to their lessons. She hoped he was feeling well. What would happen if he were sick or hurt? Did anyone even know where he was?

Feeling the need to check on him, she stood up and rounded the corner of the room to the statue of the three saints. Behind it she raised both her hands up to the wall and pushed on it hard. The stones there didn't make a sound nor move an inch as she strained, and she wondered what Erik's trick to it had been. Feeling outsmarted by something as simple as a door, she crossed her arms and sighed as she returned to her seat on the window.

As the minutes droned on, she became increasingly worried for Erik's health as well as her own. Either he was sick or she was truly a madwoman who had imagined the entire previous evening. But he had to have been real, she had felt him touch her! He'd been there, holding her in his arms. She yearned for him to be beside her again, to prove to her he was indeed real and not a figment of her imagination.

Yet, even if she were insane, as long as he would return to her, imaginary or real, that would be enough. For she realized now that she needed him in her life the very same way she needed air to breathe. That feeling had been with her all day, and she didn't quite know how to handle needing someone in that way. She had depended on him for years now for innocent companionship. But now the companionship she saw in their future was much more intimate. So suddenly she was a woman and he a man. They couldn't go back to the way things were before now. They'd passed the point of no return. There was a small part of her that was scared of the intensity of it all. She couldn't deny that it felt almost like a withdrawal of sorts as she waited for him in the very place they'd first met all those years ago.

She feared, and accepted as well, that she may very well be falling in love with the phantom that terrorized the opera house. She froze at that thought, questioning love. Did she even know what love was? She'd sung a thousand arias about it in her life during their lessons, and the lyrics in them seemed to echo her own thoughts as she pictured Erik and the tender gaze she knew he saved only for her. Would she be his one day, to have and hold until their last day, like in the songs? That was what love was, wasn't it? A friendship so strong that you needed the other person to complete you. Almost like finding the other half of a perfect duet. At that thought she smiled because she'd sung duets with him a hundred times over, and nothing had ever given her more joy than the way they sounded when they sang together.

But was she ready for love? She would be seventeen in two days, not that birthdays were a huge deal to her. But seventeen seemed young for love and the choices it brought. He was obviously a few years older than herself, and possibly many. Had he ever known love before? What if a love gone wrong was what had cursed him to become the phantom? No, she wouldn't jump to conclusions. Erik had told her he would share his story in time, and she knew she needed to hear it without prior judgement if she ever wished to entertain the thought of something more between them someday.

She thought about a life spent with Erik. About the way he spent his life now; hidden away in the cold, dark cellars without a friend in the world or a true place to call home. Sure, he'd made a decent life for himself beneath the opera house, but could she join him there? Give away the sunlight and the morning sky to be his? Would he ask her to do such a thing? To do such would be to live as the undead. She didn't want that. Didn't want to give up summertime, the ocean, or the sunrises of Paris. She began to trace a line of dust in the window ledge beside her as she stared out the stained glass in deep thought.

She began to sing to herself, weighing the pros and cons of the romance she craved. She knew in her heart that the moment she gave in, gave herself over to him, that she'd be powerless to follow anywhere but where he led. But had it not been for Erik in the first place she'd have withered away into nothingness in her youth. She never would have known all the joys that music had brought her over the years, and her voice would not be what it was now without his tutelage. In a way she felt as though she owed him all she was and all she would ever be. And ever since that first night he'd always been there for her. When she was sad or scared or just needing a friend his voice had always been there in the shadows to comfort her.

Where was he and why hadn't he showed up? Didn't he still care? He had tried to kiss her. She hoped his affections were as genuine as the ones in her own heart. If not, she didn't know if she would ever be able to get through the loss.

Christine sighed as she realized how late it had gotten. She got up from the window, crossing the room slowly and opening the chapel door with hesitance. With one sorrowful gaze back into the room she longingly whispered into the dark:

"Erik, please...please I beg you. Don't make me love you unless you truly love me in return."

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 **Remember to share and review!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	11. Think of Me

Think of Me

1870

 _Christine_

The days dragged on as Erik stayed away from her. She neither saw nor heard from him in the two weeks that followed. Her birthday came and went, and with halfhearted notions she celebrated it with Meg over dinner, trying not to let her depression show through. When they'd returned to the opera house that evening Mme. Giry had gifted her with beautiful new cream colored ballet slippers, which had brought Christine sincere joy since hers were now thoroughly worn through from rehearsals. She'd hugged the Madame and thanked her many times over for them. Then, before she'd gone to bed that evening, Meg had also presented her with a gift while they were both getting ready to turn in. It had been folded in simple brown paper and as she'd unwrapped it she had gasped at its splendor.

It had been a beautiful copy of the novel _Notre-Dame de Paris_. The book had been around long before she was born, but she'd never gotten around to reading it, and recalled in passing that once she had expressed interest in it to Meg. She'd heard from her some of her peers that it was an amazing story. She'd almost wanted to cry over the fact that Meg had even remembered that conversation. She'd realized then that she hadn't read any new books in years. Books used to remind her too much of how her father used to read to her. But she was older now, and realized her love of the written word was stronger than ever as she'd run a hand over the red cover.

"I knew you'd like it!" Meg had said, smiling, "I'll leave you for bed then. I hope you've had a wonderful birthday, Christine."

That had been days ago. After the fifth night of Erik's absence Christine had stopped going to the chapel altogether in search of him. She'd brought her father's portrait up to her room and sworn off that place entirely, deciding that if he wanted to speak with her and explain his rudeness he would know very well how to find her, considering he was the phantom and all. She couldn't keep wasting away in that dark stony place every night. It was pathetic and made her feel pitiful. Instead, she practiced her singing on her own. She would go back to her dorm after rehearsals and sing to herself, and then spend about an hour a night working through her novel. She found it difficult to get through though, as the plot seemed to be getting more and more depressing with every chapter. When all the characters had finally died and turned to dust she just closed the back cover and sighed, slipping it under her bed with a new form of sadness stirring inside her as she drifted to sleep that evening thinking of skeletons.

The final dress rehearsal came, and with it change. M. Lefevre announced that he was leaving the opera house to new managers. The men appeared on stage, Giles Andre a shorter, more burly man, and Richard Firmin a skinny man with a long nose. They didn't appear to have a clue as to what they were doing, and gawked about as Mme. Giry instructed the ballet not to get distracted by their presence and to keep practicing. Christine danced in line behind Meg and watched from the corner of her eyes as Mme. Giry talked up her ballet dancers' skill while the new managers simply eyed them all like prized meats. She wanted to snort in disgust. They were paying more attention to their legs than their movements. They obvious had no respect for the arts.

"Ah sir, you've arrived!" Christine heard M. Andre proclaimed loudly from stage right. "Everyone, your attention a moment!"

Christine turned, along with the rest of the ballet, and saw a very well dressed man walking up the side stairs of the stage. He was taller than M. Andre by a head, and wore a finely tailored slate colored suitcoat and black gloves. His hair was a brownish blonde and was cut expertly in a very modern fashion, showing how young he was in comparison to the managers at his side. He shook both men's hands before turning to smile towards them all.

"Everyone, is my pleasure to announce our new patron...the Victome de Changy!" M. Firmin announced.

Everyone applauded, for a new patron meant new funds, which was always a welcome relief after the start-up price of a new production. Christine eyed the patron as she clapped, wondering where she'd heard the name Changy before. Then it struck her. The gentleman was only a few years older than herself. And his face so similar to the one she remembered, yet much more mature from the many years.

"It's Raoul!" she proclaimed in quiet wonder, smiling at the memory of him as a child as she turned to Meg, "I know him! When my father and I lived by the sea we were friends!" She paused and smiled. "Almost childhood sweethearts in a way."

Meg giggled. "Well, he certainly grew up to be quite the sweetheart Christine. You should go talk to him!"

Christine laughed and shook her head. "No, I doubt he even remembers me. We were so little back then. Besides, he's a viscount now. He wouldn't have time to entertain the company of a ballet girl."

"Well if you won't talk to him I certainly would love to." Meg sighed and added in a humorous whisper: "Just _imagine_ becoming the wife of a viscount!"

"Sounds dreadfully boring," Christine replied honestly, "Give me the stage over a sewing needle any day!"

Christine watched as Carlotta and Piangi skirted over to Raoul and the managers to gloat about themselves. Over Carlotta's shoulder she could have sworn for a moment she saw Raoul's eyes meeting her gaze. He seemed to give her a soft smile before returning to his conversation. Perhaps he did remember her after all. Christine made it a point to remember to talk to him some night after one the shows for a bit. It might be nice to catch up with him. She hoped his older brother was still in decent health. He'd been sickly when they were younger and she hated the thought of Philippe passing. He'd been very nice to her in their youth the few times she'd met him.

Raoul politely dismissed himself from the company of the opera house and Christine watched as he disappeared up the aisles and exited the theater. M. Firmin then turned to Carlotta and requested a private performance of the Act III aria, to which she was more than happy to oblige. Christine followed the rest of ballerinas offstage as the pianist started playing and Carlotta started wailing off the lyrics to the would-be masterpiece of the song. Meg groaned as the diva carried on with a smile, thinking she was the greatest gift to mankind.

"You are so much better than her, Christine," Meg whispered with distaste, "I can't wait for the day she retires. Then you could sing for us!"

"Thank you Meg, but I doubt that day will come anytime soon," Christine whispered back, pulling hair sweaty hair off her shoulders and letting it fall behind her.

As if their conversation were a curse, suddenly one of the background sets from the rafters came whirling down, landing square on Carlotta's shoulders. The diva released an unholy shriek as she fell to the floor, throwing a tantrum and crying out for assistance. The men rushed to her side to help her up. Christine couldn't stop her eyes from rolling, knowing the fabric background only weighed _maybe_ ten kilos and that there was no way it could have harmed her.

"He's here!" one of the chorus girls shouted, "The phantom of the opera!"

"The what?" M. Firmin inquired, barely looking up as he helped to pull Carlotta to her feet.

"The phantom, monsieur. There's a rumor that a ghost haunts this opera house," Mary was happy to fill in, stepping towards him.

"Oh, such nonsense." The manager laughed, looking back to Carlotta as he helped to pull her up. "Madame, please. These things _do_ happen."

Carlotta turned a bright shade of red. "Dees tings do happen? Ha! Well, until dees tings stop a-happenin', dis ting does not 'appen!"

She stormed off the stage, Piangi in tow, mumbling something under his breath as he followed her. M. Andre looked after them as his cheeks flushed an awful shade of pink.

"She will be back, won't she?" he inquired with panic, turning to the ballet, "Somebody tell me she'll be back before tomorrow night!"

No one spook a word. Not that Christine even heard him speaking. She was too busy gazing up longingly into the rafters, wishing the phantom really had been up there. The background falling down had probably merely been an accident, but a girl could always hope.

"Well who is her understudy then?" he demanded to know.

"There is no understand, monsieur. The production is new," the composer stated from the pit.

"Christine Daae could sing it, mousier!" Mme. Giry's voice suddenly sounded from the back of the crowd. Christine's eyes widened and the color left her face as the older woman crossed the stage through the throng of actors and took her roughly by the arm, leading her, without much of a choice, over to the managers. "She has been well taught. One of my best."

The managers looked at her almost as if they were disgusted by the very idea the Madame was suggesting. She could almost hear their thoughts as they sneered her with their gazes. With such doubtful onlookers she no bravery in her as she was suddenly placed before everyone like an artifact at an auction. Still, this was the big chance she had always dreamed of. She couldn't throw it away. Not when it was here within her reach. She swallowed hard and nodded her head in agreement with Mme. Giry.

"Very well, go ahead then. The aria, please," M. Firmin instructed her.

Christine felt everyone back away to give her space on the stage. Suddenly she felt very much alone as the opening notes to the song began to play from the pit. She was terrified at first, and could feel her voice wavering. She heard a disapproving snort from one of the managers after the second stanza, and in that moment she decided she had to prove them all wrong. This was her moment. She had to show them all she had learned. She spread her arms wide, feeling as though she was flying along with the spirit of her father within her, and sang the rest of the piece more perfectly than she ever had before. When she finished she turned around to a hundred stunned faces. No one said a word at first, then Meg began to applaud and jump up and down in place. So suddenly, the entire company followed suit and were cheering and smiling as the managers shook her hands and congratulating her on a splendid job.

"Enough!" Mme. Giry demanded, banging her cane down onto the floors as the company silenced immediately. "Yes...she did well. But there is still much work to be done! Christine, go backstage and get fitted. There are many costume changes for this role. Then we must go over the blocking for the leading lady. We only have the rest of the day to perfect it. Let's move people! Go! Back as you were!"

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The next afternoon Christine awoke glowing. Mme. Giry had worked her late into the night and had insisted she sleep in so that she was refreshed for the grand opening. She sprang excitedly from her bed and raced towards the washroom to make sure her hair was fresh and clean, then went straight to the theatre to prepare for the show. Immediately, she was ushered into Carlotta's dressing room, where two women with flat faces spent hours making sure her hair was perfect and her makeup flawless. The feeling of makeup was odd to Christine as they pulled and powdered the skin on her face. She'd never worn it before, and for a second worried she'd looked ridiculous. Looking into the mirror afterwards though made her gasp aloud.

She'd never thought she could look so beautiful. Her eyes had been outlined with thin black paint and her lashes brushed with mascara to make them appear long and fanned. They looked dramatic and soft all at the same time. They'd also painted her lips a bright rosy red color, which was a huge contrast from the light pink shade they were naturally. The entire design made her face look years older. It was a more mature and sensual Christine that she had never seen in herself. Her curly hair had been pinned back in some places and left to frame her face in others. Rhinestone flower pins were spread all throughout her dark locks, making her head sparkle as she turned it back and forth. Surely if the pins looked this beautiful in her dim dressing room, they would be absolutely stunning under the spotlights.

When they'd finished with her hair and makeup they placed her in a large, flowing white gown. The dress didn't go over her head, but to her amazement fastened around her body and laced up in the back in two separate parts. The women were not gentle fastening the corset piece, and Christine had to remind them that she would have to breathe to be able to sing. The neckline of the dress was just low enough to make Christine blush when she looked down, and the bodice was beautifully accented with more rhinestones like the ones in her hair. She was trailing her hand over the intricate design as the women left and Mme. Giry entered, beaming with pride.

"You look like an angel, Christine," she told her, wrapping her in a warm embrace. "Oh, how I wish Gustave could see you!"

Christine smiled and held her adopted mother tightly. "Do you think he would be proud?"

"Why of course he would be!" Mme. Giry laughed, stepping back. "Trust me, if he could see you today, he would weep from joy!"

"That's very kind of you to say, Madame," Christine replied as she turned towards her mirror and tried to pull the corset top slightly higher to cover up her cleavage.

"Stop messing with that. The last thing you want during your debut is a costume malfunction. Now, would you like help with your jewelry?" Christine heard Mme. Giry inquire.

Christine turned around and laughed. "You mean to tell me there's _more_ to this outfit?"

"Oh yes," Mme. Giry, said with a wicked grin, "Here, come look."

Christine watched as Madame Giry reached into the side pocket of her long, black gown and pulled out a dark navy box. Christine took a step towards her with curiosity and opened it. Her eyes widened at the beautiful diamond choker and matching dangle earrings inside the velvet casing.

"Madame, those are _not_ costume jewelry!" she stated with astonishment, "I cannot accept such a gift! It's too much!"

Mme. Giry waved her hand dismissively and pulled the necklace from the box, moving behind Christine to place it around her neck. It was truly the most beautiful thing Christine had ever seen. It ended just below her collarbone and shimmered like a thousand stars in the candlelight. She didn't realize she was gaping until she felt Mme. Giry take her hand and press the earrings into her palm.

"They are not from me," she stated, "So I cannot let you refuse them. Please."

Christine nodded and looked down at the earrings. She never thought she'd hold jewelry so expensive. She placed each one carefully in in her ears and smiled at her full figure in the mirror. She didn't even recognize herself. She looked regal, like a queen who had escaped from a fairytale book. But if the diamonds weren't from Mme. Giry, who had given them to her? She turned to ask and found Mme. Giry no longer standing behind her. Instead, Christine saw from the corner of her eyes the black trail of the Madame's dress as she slipped silently out the of the dressing room. She then heard one of the stagehands knock and tell her she had five minutes before her first number. She quickly steadied herself, taking a few breaths to calm her anxieties and made sure she was standing up straight. After all, posture was everything with singing. She couldn't recount the number of times Erik had scolded her for improper posture over the years in their lessons.

 _Erik_. She sighed and cursed herself for thinking of him. As hard as she'd tried to get over his absence he was still there, a constant thought in the back of her mind with every movement she made.

"Oh, angel...how I wish you could see me tonight," she whispered to herself, looking one last time at her reflection with a faraway gaze.

She tried to shake the thoughts of him from her mind. She couldn't let thoughts of her absent love distract her from her debut. Even if he had gone forever, this was the parting gift he had given her. Her voice was his creation, and she would do both her father and her angel proud tonight. As she took the stage and began to sing the aria she again found herself picturing Erik, though this time it didn't fill her with sorrow as it had been these past two weeks. Singing of love now while thinking of him instead brought a joy and passion to her voice that she'd never sung with before. She imagined him out in the audience critiquing her every move and smiled. It nearly made her tear up as she sang the beautiful lyrics, only for him.

" _There won't ever be a day when I won't think of you..."_

The applause that sounded for her following her performance was the sweetest noise she'd ever heard. She felt her heart nearly explode with joy as she was greeted backstage by the friendly faces of the company, all gifting her sincere congratulations. She could hardly breathe in the mess of people as some moved to talk to her and others ran onstage to change the set. There was only one act left of the show, and she wasn't in it until the finale. She took a moment on a bench backstage to sit and relax before once again finding her one true place on the stage.

* * *

Christine was truly exhausted by the end of the show. She returned to her dressing room with wide eyes, noting the many various displays of flowers that were now littered around the small room. Some were large and colorful, while others were small and bland. She giggled in embarrassment at such notions, but was pleased that people had enjoyed her performance so much. She crossed the room and perched herself happily at the large vanity, reaching up to remove the first of all the many rhinestone pins in her hair. She pulled the first one out from somewhere in the back of her head with a winch as it tugged at her hair and went to set it down on the vanity's tabletop. It was there that she noticed a single red rose lying there on the wood.

The thorns of the rose had been removed and a black satin ribbon had been tied carefully around the stem. The single flower was by far a much more intimate gift than the many bouquets around her, and she smiled sweetly as she brought it up to her nose and inhaled it's wonderful scent. As she did, a knock sounded at the door. Without even thinking, her fingers twirling the rose's stem and her gaze down, Christine called out that the door was unlocked. She expected to see Mme. Giry or Meg coming through the door, but when she turned around on the bench she froze in shock, dropping the rose to the ground. The soft thud it made as it hit the hardwood seemed to echo in the silence that followed, and Christine thought for a moment her heart had stopped as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Erik...?"

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	12. Explanations

Explanations

1870

 _Erik_

Erik stood frozen just inside the doorway of Christine's dressing room. He heard the door slowly close behind him as he watched the rose he'd left for his star slip through her delicate fingertips and fall to the floor. He almost spoke then, but instead found himself speechless as he stared down at her, taking in the ever maddening beauty that was she. The way she sat, perched sideways on her vanity bench with her dress trailing off to the side, was a beautiful sight to behold. He'd seen her during her performance from his box seat, but hadn't quite been close enough to truly appreciate the aura of her enchanting look. Yet here she was now, a perfect porcelain princess placed right before him. He noticed her hair had been styled to frame her heart-shaped face in a soft way, giving her a sweet and innocent appearance. This was in complete contrast to the makeup they'd applied to her though. The way they'd made her up was almost, dare he think it, seductive. Her lips were redder then he'd ever seen them and her eyes...

Her eyes seemed sad. Confused. He reflected that confusion for a moment until in occurred to him just how selfish he'd been in the last two weeks. He'd gone through so much planning and preparation for tonight, and yet he'd completely left his angel in the dark during that time. He'd left her alone with no answers and no explanations as to why he'd gone away. He'd abandoned her, the same way he'd been abandoned before. Oh, how could he have been so cruel to her?

He slowly took a step towards her and she stood up hesitantly in response, almost defensively. Afraid she would flee, he took her roughly into his arms, holding her tightly as he ran what he hoped was a comforting hand down the back of her hair. He heard a small sob escape her lips as her nails clung hard into the back of his jacket. No matter how overjoyed Erik's heart was to have his beloved back in his arms, he couldn't deny the part of him that felt cross for having caused her such doubts and pain.

"I was so scared. I thought you'd gone away forever," she whispered, leaning back to stare up at him with the most vulnerable eyes he'd ever seen. "I thought you'd decided you didn't want me."

Erik sighed, feeling his heart nearly break in two at hearing her speak with such sadness in her voice. He knew then that he probably should have left her a note explaining why he had been absent long before tonight. How could he have disregarding her fragile feelings so? He really was clueless sometimes. Whenever he started a project he tended to get lost in it, hardly stopping to think of anything else in the process. And rejoining mankind had indeed been a large project.

"I could never not want you Christine," he told her plainly, "I told you that before. You are perfection incarnate."

She took a step back, pulling herself from his arms and drifting down into the mahogany armchair just beside her vanity. She seemed to study him a moment, the sadness sliding off her face as her lips formed a thin, tight line.

"You have an awful lot of explaining to do in that case," she told him matter-of-factually, crossing her arms in what he assumed was supposed to be an intimidating fashion.

"I do indeed," he admitted, stepping past her and pulling the bench out from her vanity, taking a seat on it as he wondered aloud: "Where to begin though?"

He ran a hand back overtop his hair and looked very seriously over to Christine, who was sitting back in her chair now and had let her hands drift down to a fold on her lap. He tried to study her face, to give himself any indication as to what she was feeling. But she was firm as stone, awaiting him to explain himself.

"Shall I start at the very beginning?" he asked gently, "Or just two weeks ago?"

Erik nearly bit his tongue as he forced himself to speak such a dreadful offer. A part of him was frightened that he'd even presented it to her. He knew how badly Christine yearned to know about his frightful past, but was he ready to tell his tale of torment and despair? He supposed he owed her that much. He'd abandoned her after all. Looking at things through her eyes he saw a man who'd proclaimed, through actions, a fondness for her and then disappeared the very next day into a wisp of smoke. She hadn't known where he'd gone or even if he was still alive. He'd truly left her in the dark. If she wanted to know his story, than for that he would tell it.

He watched as Christine registered his offer. He anxiously watched as her hard gaze softened and she at last sighed, smoothing a hand down a crease in the hem of her dress.

"Two weeks ago," she finally said, much to his relief, "Tell me why you went away."

"There was...a lot to do," he replied, slowly and carefully choosing his words. "The night I reveled myself to you I wanted to tell you just how much I admired you and wanted a future with you. But in my mind there were so many doubts as to whether or not my feelings were even appropriate, let alone reciprocated! I did a lot of thinking after you left that night, and realized the current man I was was not a man worthy of you."

"Erik-" She started to protest, but he cut her off. She needed to hear what he had to say. It was the only way she'd understand.

"I wasn't, and that's the hard, simple truth. I was a recluse, a phantom. Cut off from the world. What kind of monster would I have been to steal an angel such as you away into such darkness? I couldn't bare the thought of doing such a thing. But I thought perhaps, if I were a normal man, than maybe..."

He trailed off, thinking to himself how to proceed. He didn't want to say to go overboard, yet didn't want to say too little. He wanted to be honest, yet gentle in approach. Christine didn't say a word as he collected himself and continued. She simply sat, slightly leaning forward in her chair, staring at him with her large, wondering eyes.

"You see, first I had to rid myself of the phantom," he told her, "To be with you meant that persona could no longer be a part of who I am. He was a lowlife. Not the kind of man I wanted you to get to know. I used the phantom only once more to rid the company of that toad, Carlotta. I have since then set myself free of shadows and white masks altogether. That I promise you. This mask right here is the only one I shall ever wear again."

Christine nodded in acceptance to what he was saying. She ha seemed to accept this new mask as an improvement over the white one right from the start. The closely matched shades of beige blended in with his natural skin much more natural than the previous one ever had. From far away one couldn't even tell he wore a mask at all. It had been a simple design, and yet the difference was striking.

"So you'd never really gone _too_ far away then," she pondered aloud, keeping on the subject at hand.

"No," he laughed, relieved she was keeping the mood light, "I was indeed very near for past few days. But I stray. Please, allow me to finish."

Christine put her palms up in surrender with a smile as she leaned back in her chair, gesturing with a flick of the wrist for him to continue.

"I worked day and night these last fourteen days," he explained plainly to her, "I had to find and pay some rather seedy people a fair amount of money but I've got papers now. Official ones. A birth certificate, immigration papers, citizenship...you name it and I've acquired it."

"Immigration?" she asked with curiosity.

"Ah yes. You see, I was born a German. I was brought to France as a baby though. But, in order to best be able to explain my surname and absence from the public all these years, the man who got me my papers thought it best they say I immigrated here only recently."

"Your accent is very French though," Christine stated, "As mine is, even though I'm a Swedish. People with half a mind might not believe you grew up in Germany."

"It isn't a perfect story but it works for simple conversation. I doubt there's anyone that would read that far into me. Besides, _ich spreche fließend Deutsch_. It really isn't all that difficult a language. English was much more difficult to learn."

"You speak French, English, _and_ German?" Christine gaped, sounding extremely impressed.

"Also Italian and Arabic," he pointed out, allowing himself to relax a little and lean against her vanity with his arm.

"You say that likes it's no big deal!" Christine laughed. "I can't even say I'm fully fluent in English! What with all their grammaticalnonsense. You're a genius, Erik. Take some pride in it, really."

"No," he smiled, "I take more pride in the fact that I now have true and legal employment here more than any language I can speak."

Christine's face scrunched up in confusion. "Employment? _Here_? But how can that be?"

"Well you see before M. Leferve retired, I took a trip down to his office. I sat him down and explained to him that I was indeed the phantom of the opera. Of course he didn't believe me at first but then I pulled out a note he'd addressed specifically to me. I tell you what, he turned such a stark shade of white in that moment that I was worried I'd given him a heart attack."

Christine burst out laughing. "That poor man!"

"It was quite a surprise for him, no doubt. The poor fellow nearly died of shock. After a while though he calmed down and we got to talking like civilized men. He told me of his plans for retirement and spoke of the two gentleman who would be taking his place. He was worried, you see, that they would not take kindly to the direction of a specter. For that he wished for me to come out and continue, publicly now, as the artistic director of the opera house, to help ensure its future. All along that had been my intention and so naturally, I agreed. He's left behind a copy of my contract for the new managers, and I am expected to greet them tonight and introduce myself. I am to inform that them I alone shall be directing every show following this one."

"Erik, that's amazing. I can't believe you did all of that," Christine told him in wonderment.

He smiled. "I would do anything for you, my dear."

He watched as a blush rose in her cheeks and she looked down at her lap for a moment. When she gazed back up at him she was pinker than ever. He couldn't have expressed his joy at the fact that he stirred such reactions inside her.

"What about living quarters? Will you still be...dwelling beneath the opera house?" she asked him, a wavering note in her voice.

He sighed, noting the way she had said _dwelling_ and not _living_. Even she could tell it was no home for him, but for now he had no other option. He could afford a home of course, have no doubt. But he didn't want a home unless it were one with Christine, and it was far too soon to propose that notion to her. He didn't want to frighten her off, not now when he had only just begun to get to know her.

"For now, yes. But soon I shall be looking for new residence. Maybe after the new year passes."

"I would love to help you with that task," she told him with a shy smile and a look in her eyes that Erik couldn't have misread as anything but promise.

"That would be most perfect," he replied to her, standing up and offering her his hand. She set it in his and he pulled her up, offering her the bench to the vanity. She took the seat with a coy smile and he began to pull the many pins from her hair, knowing she couldn't possibly get them out alone. He watched in the mirror as she gazed forward at his reflection with admiration as he completed his task. One by one he dropped the pins to the table in front of her with a soft ping, and after a few minutes of content silence, she was free of them. He watched as she then reached up to take out her earrings. As she did she turned slightly to look him in the eye suspiciously.

"Erik, there's no chance you know where these came from, is there?" she asked him slyly, taking them out and dangling them in front of him.

He tried his best to look innocent. "That depends. Do you like them?"

Christine laughed and playfully swatted his side with her free hand. "Of course I like them. I love them! But Erik, please tell me they weren't expensive."

Erik tried to protest that they weren't, but Christine saw right through him and with a laugh called him a liar before turning back around and removing the choker as well. He knew he couldn't argue with her any further on the subject, because even he had been surprised when he'd heard the price the jeweler had asked for them. He'd been walking through the town a few nights ago, returning successfully with his new identification papers, when he'd seen a trio of ladies gawking at the set from the sidewalk, staring enviously into the store's glass window display. Erik had known right then and there that the diamonds would be the perfect gift for Christine's debut. After all, to him a beautiful gift was worth only half of all the hard work she'd put in to get where she was now. She'd more than deserved gifts such as these for years now. As the jeweler had wrapped them in their velvet navy box and Erik had paid him, he'd left the shop with soaring spirits.

"His wife is a lucky woman," he'd heard one of the ladies say as he'd walked by. He'd smiled at that, reaching up to touch his new mask, glad that people could now see him as a man worthy of a wife and not some phantom or monster. He had truly been born anew these past two weeks.

Erik couldn't stop staring at Christine as she moved about, fixing her hair. Every movement she made was graceful like a ballerinas, but full of life and animation, like the prima dona she was. He could have watched her for hours, but assumed that wouldn't be proper of him. He already felt as though he had spent far too much time inside her personal dressing room as is.

"I should really let you get ready for bed now," he told her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, "You have three more performances this week and it would be rude of me to keep you up when you need your rest."

"When will I see you again?" she asked, turning around to catch his hand in her own. He could sense despair in her voice, like she was worried he would vanish again. He bent down onto one knee and placed a singe kiss upon her hand.

"Every night, if you wish," he promised her, "As the future director, I will be required to one day attend ever show, and so I might as well start now, seeing as how it grants me the graces to see you in this beautiful white gown each evening."

Christine blushed, then quickly changed the subject, the compliment seeming to embarrass her almost. "Where will you sit for the performances?"

"Box five," he replied, "I shall always be in box five, should you wonder. And after each performance I promise to be here, by your side, for as long as you'll allow me to be."

He said this as he reached over and picked up the fallen rose she had dropped to the floor. He held it up to her and she took it tenderly in her hand as he stood up.

"Erik I...I don't know what to say. Thank you. For everything."

She stood up and wrapped her arms around his waist. He returned the embrace, holding her close to his heart. It almost pained him to let her go afterwards. A part of him wanted to kiss her then and there, to never let her go again, but he had to go and find the managers before the evening grew too late. So instead he simply kissed her forehead and stepped away from her, opening the dressing room door and turning back once more to look at her before leaving. She stood there, an angel in the candlelight, dressed all in white and surrounded by dozens of flowers. There had never been a more perfect sight in all the world. He reluctantly closed the door behind himself and faced the hall, surprised to see the managers and the new patron only a few meters away, huddled together in deep conversation. They noticed him at once as he walked towards them, and flagged him over to join in their merriment. Erik immediately noted as he drew that M. Andre smelled of a copious amount of wine. The portly fellow laughed quite drunkenly as he extended his hand out towards Erik.

"Monsieur Destler, I presume!" he grinned, shaking his hand, "Well, I assume that's who you are! Monsieur Lefevre had told us we would recognize you by the...the um...well you know..."

M. Andre brought a hand up to cover the right side of his face, not looking embarrassed in the least by his actions. M. Firmin looked absolutely horrified by his coworker's gesture, but Erik simply dismissed the fact with a wave of his hand and introduced himself to each of the men in turn. A few moments later M. Firmin was apologizing for Andre's words as the round little man scurried off to find another drink amongst the servers of the gala.

"Don't mind him, monsieur. Honestly, he didn't mean anything rude in regards to your face. M. Lefevre simply informed us that the mask was how we would identify you in the crowd after the show. He told us in great detail of the fire that took your parents. I'm sorry that you got burned in the process, but to run back into the house to try and save your mother's life...and as a child no less! Why I've never heard of such heroics! I must say your character impresses me!"

Erik had to keep himself from rolling on the floor in laughter. He'd instructed Lefevre to tell the new managers he was a burn victim so that they wouldn't ask questions about his mask, but to go as far as to make him into a hero? Why, it was almost too much to take seriously. He was about to reply when his words were cut off by the viscount.

"Yes, quite impressive," he heard the boyish man say offhandedly as he turned to step away from their conversation, "Now if you two will excuse me, I would quite like to see Miss Daae tonight before she retires."

"I could introduce you!" M. Firmin offered, much to Erik's horror. He didn't like the looks of the viscount. The man seemed like a posh weasel to him. Tainted by money and used to getting whatever he wanted. Erik knew of the kind. It wasn't the sort of man he wanted anywhere near his Christine.

"No need," the viscount replied with pride, "Miss Christine and I were friends as children. I daresay she'll be quite excited to see me!"

 _What a pompous fop_ , Erik thought dryly as he feigned a friendly smile towards the man. "Monsieur...?"

"Raoul, if you must know," he replied curtly, "but Monsieur de Changy is preferred."

"Raoul then," Erik decided flatly, not feeling the need to grace the oaf with titles, "I shall have to ask that you speak with Christine another night. I was just with her and she is quite exhausted from tonight's performance. She stated she doesn't wish to have any more visitors before she retires."

"And who are _you_ supposed to be that you know her on such a personal level?" Raoul inquired with distaste, "I was under the impression that you didn't even work here yet."

"I have been her vocal tutor for many years now," Erik replied, staring pointedly down at the little rich man. Though the boy was taller than the managers Erik still had both height and bulk over him. He'd do well to realize that.

M. Firmin's eyes lit up upon hearing that he was Christine's teacher, and he placed a firm smack between Erik's shoulders that made him cringe.

"Well Destler, I must say you have done a wonderful job! She is a _delight_! Now, if you'll both excuse me, I must go and find Andre before he gets himself into any more trouble."

Erik nodded a goodbye to M. Firmin, knowing his contract was as good as signed. In truth he wished he could have volunteered to go and check on M. Andre. Anything seemed better then to stand around listening to Raoul speak, who had now raised a finger directly to Erik's chest.

"Well, _teacher,_ " Raoul sneered, looking up at him with ice in his eyes, "Perhaps now that Christine is a professional here you should spend less time with her and more time on your work, hmm?"

Erik couldn't help but notice a threatening challenge reflected in Raoul's eyes. It was a challenge he was happy to meet. He knew there was no way Christine would ever give this arrogant snake a moment of her time anyway.

"Perhaps we'll leave that up to Miss Daae to decide," he replied smoothly, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing server's tray and taking a sip of it, all the while not breaking eye contact with the young patron.

He could see that he had won for the evening as the viscount turned away from him in flippant disgust and made his way through the crowd. Erik had to admit he had never hated anyone so quickly before in his life. Sure, he disliked the likes of Carlotta and her kind, but even when she was unbearable it wasn't to this degree. He tipped back the champagne in his hand and finished it off quickly, setting the empty glass down on a nearby table as he watched the many people around him socializing. He leaned against the wall a ways off, keeping his eyes on Christine's dressing room door. He stayed there a while, like some kind of personal guard, only allowing himself to take leave after she had made it safely back to the dorms.

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* * *

 **Erik has officially rejoined society and we've also gotten a first look at my Raoul character here. How do we feel about that? Leave a review and let me know!**

 **xoxo**

 **-Nicole**


	13. Perfection

Perfection

1870

 _Christine_

As Christine sang the finale to _Hannibal_ that night her spirits soared. She watched the actors moving around her in a circle to the last few verses, and smiled at Meg as she twirled by and winked at her in passing. Then she took the hand of the understudy tenor, Garon, and together they made their way up center stage and bowed as the large, velvet curtain fell. As it dropped Garon turned to her and smiled, quickly embracing her for work well done before running backstage to find Mary. The tenor and the ballerina had been inseparable since Garon had been promoted from the chorus, and Christine couldn't have been happier for the two of them as she peered out the curtain and drifted her gaze up towards box five. This was the fourth performance of the week, with only one more to go before they got a two day reprieve. Usually, after the show she was able to spot Erik, but tonight she couldn't. She wondered if he had had to miss the performance. She couldn't be mad at him if he did. After all, he'd been to the last three, and she was sure it must've gotten boring at some point to watch the same production over and over again.

She gasped in surprise as she felt warm arms encircling her from behind and she smiled to herself, placing her own hands atop the ones on her waist.

"Perfection as always, my dear," she heard Erik say in that deep, seductive voice of his that she loved so much to hear.

"Perfection you say now," she teased, squeezing his right hand, "But later I assume you'll have found something I could improve upon."

"Of course," he replied, "What kind of tutor would I be if I didn't?"

Christine smiled and leaned back against him, exhausted but feeling very awakened by his touch. The past few nights he had met with her in her dressing room as he had the first night, each time helping her with the tangles of pins in her hair and telling her all the new things he'd noticed about the performances. But tonight he'd come backstage, which was a new and very welcome change. She blushed, realizing the way he held her was very publicly intimate. She wondered if he even noticed or cared. Christine found she didn't mind, though she knew somewhere Meg must be staring and bursting at the seams with a thousand questions Christine would have to answer later.

"Monsieur Destler, did I see you come back here? If I may, a word?" came M. Firmin's voice from the far side of the stage.

Christine heard Erik groan slightly as he released his hold on her. "It would appear that work is calling me, my dearest. Go on. I'll join you in ten minutes time to help you with these," he promised, gesturing to the many pins in her hair.

She nodded with a smile and made her way towards her dressing room. As with the past few nights the dressing room was filled to the brim with flowers, yet her eyes only softened when she saw a single rose lying in solitude on her vanity tabletop. She reached down and trailed her fingertips over the satin ribbon, feeling content. She now had a small bustle of them drying on her nightstand back in her room. As her fingers graced the soft petals she realized just how quickly she had grown comfortable with Erik around. He made her smile with the even the smallest of things and talking to him seemed as easy as breathing. She felt safe and loved by his presence, and wondered how things could possibly get any better than they were now.

"Ahhhh...Little Lotte," came a man's voice from behind her.

Christine jumped in surprise and spun around to see Raoul of all people standing in her doorway. She smiled at him politely, as you should to every patron, even though he'd not had the courtesy to knock first before entering a lady's room. Still, she supposed she could forgive him for that, seeing as how they'd once been close friends.

"So you do remember me then!" she stated, "I was wondering when it was you would stop by and say hello. It's been well over a decade since we last saw each other. Here I'd thought you'd gone and forgotten who I was."

"Nonsense," the viscount laughed, shrugging his coat off and tossing it over her mahogany chair, "I could never forget you, Christine! Especially not after all we went through together! Do you recall that frigid winter day by the ocean? It bit at my very bones to run into the sea after that scarf of yours. No, I daresay I could never forget the friend I nearly died for."

"Thank you again for that," she told him, staring at the jacket he'd laid down. _Make yourself right at home, then._ "My father was so grateful to you that day. He brought you inside and gave you his clothes to change into, if I'm remembering correctly. I recall that you and I huddled by the fire all night while you thawed."

"Ah, yes," Raoul said, taking an oddly close step towards her, "I remember that night quite well. We became very close after that, you and I. We shared those picnics in the attic of my summer home and I'd visit you and your father would read to us. He would tell us those dark stories of the North, the ones of goblins and the angel of music."

Christine took a step back from him and sat at her vanity, sighing at the mention of her dear papa as she recalled those same fond memories. "He's dead now, you know that, yes? Father died many years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear," Raoul said earnestly, "Though I'm overjoyed to see that his music carried on in you. You truly are his daughter."

Christine began to feel fidgety as Raoul gazed at her with an uncomfortable intensity. She reached up to tug one of her hairpins out. "Yes, well I couldn't have done it alone. My vocal tutor was with me from the very beginning. Father had promised to send me the angel of music when he died and, in a way, Erik became that angel."

"You speak highly of M. Destler," Raoul noted, leaning against the wall with his shoulder. "I have to wonder. What is he to you?"

Christine dropped the pin in her hand and heard it bounce along the floor. "Raoul, I highly doubt that is an appropriate conversation to have with a lady. That is my personal life you're inquiring about."

Raoul nonchalantly stepped forward, leaning down to retrieve the fallen pin. "Well, you see I find it a very reasonable question considering I plan on courting you if you are not already spoken for. Yet even if you are that may not be enough to sway me. I'm quite persistent, you see."

Christine nearly chocked on the very air she breathed. Raoul wanted to court her? He hardly knew her! The only things he knew of her were memories of her at age seven! She liked to think there was a lot more to her now than there was ten years ago when she was merely a child. Certainly he only saw her now as other patrons did, as someone young and talented and good looking on the arm. Christine almost found his suggestion offensive if that were the case.

"You don't even know me anymore, Raoul," she said dryly, taking the pin from him. He took that moment to seize her hand in his. His grip was tight and his gaze piercing as he bent down to make eye contact with her.

"Oh, but I'd like to," he said softly, his voice tender and seductive.

Something in the way he spoke made Christine's stomach turn over as she pulled her hand from his in disgust. How dare he barge in here and turn their simple conversation of fond childhood memories into some creepy off-handed courtship! She was about to tell him off when a knock sounded at the door and Erik walked in a a second later. She immediately saw the smiling look on his face turn to one of stone as he eyed Raoul with a pointed glare. Christine watched as he stepped inside the room smoothly, like a ghost adrift, and walked over to Raoul's coat, picking it up and holding it out for him to take. Raoul smiled a sarcastic thanks in return, taking the jacket from Erik with a hard pull. Christine had to hand it to Erik, he was a man who could definitely command authority when he wanted to. Raoul almost didn't dare say another word to either of them. Almost.

"Christine, I would be rather pleased if you'd join me sometime this week for supper," he said, turning back towards her with a handsome grin as if Erik had never entered the room. "Would Tuesday work for you?"

Christine was about to reply when Erik did instead. "I'm afraid Miss Daae has prior plans that evening, monsieur. With _me_."

Raoul shot a look of daggers in Erik's direction at his interruption, yet Erik's face remained cool and collected. Raoul then looked back at Christine, as if for some reason she would disagree, but she simply shrugged her shoulders at him, making him turn heel towards the door.

"Another time then," he said darkly, leering at Erik as he disappearing from sight into the hall.

Christine felt a shiver go up her spine as if Raoul's presence in her dressing room had left a cold chill in the air. Erik must have sensed it, and was at her side at once taking his coat off and draping it over her shoulders. She relaxed slightly, smelling Erik's cologne coming from the jacket as she reached up to pull it tighter around her. Raoul had overstepped boundaries in their conversation, and she never wished to have him inside her personal dressing room ever again. Erik began pulling pins from her hair quickly, and in the reflection of the vanity she saw hatred in his eyes. Though he never once pulled her hair, he seemed to be tearing the pins out much faster than usual, almost angrily.

"There's something about that man," he finally said, sighing as he placed his hands on her shoulders, "I know he's an old friend of yours but he just seems like a jackal to me, Christine. I don't like him near you."

Christine almost snorted. "That makes the both of us then. You know, I never found him to be intimidating when we were children, but the way he looked at me just now, talking of his nonsense plans to court me-"

"To do what?" Erik fumed, plain anger in his voice as he let go of her and stepped to the side. He banged his fist against the wall by her vanity in frustration. "That insolent, entitled boy! What does he think? That because he is the leading patron of this opera house that he owns you? Is that it?"

"Calm down Erik. I'm sure he means well," she tried to reason, "But I do agree that he seems to have grown a bit...well entitled, as you said. I doubt he's used to hearing no for an answer. That's what unnerves me. Even frightens me a bit."

She saw Erik's eyes soften as he turned back towards her and took her hands in his. He pulled her up and embraced her tightly. "Oh Christine, you needn't be scared of the likes of him. You know I'd never let anyone harm you. Not so long as I live and breathe."

"I know," she whispered into his shoulder, "I know."

They stood there for a moment, just holding each other, and Christine felt at ease by his touch. She knew no matter what the world threw at her, Erik would always be there to catch her if she fell. After all he'd always been there for her, in his own way. Years and years now he'd been watching over her, first as a friend and now as something more. She pulled back slightly, gazing up into his beautiful golden eyes that were laced with concern for her safety. From this close up she could see where his skin colored mask ended and his face began. For a few days now she'd almost forgotten that he hid something at all beneath that thin material. She reached up at it and traced the edge of it with her fingertip, feeling him shudder in response. She wondered why he still felt the need to hide his true face from her. She reached up under the edge of it and he flinched away, taking her hand almost too roughly in his own.

"Please don't Christine," he whispered, "I don't want you anymore frightened tonight."

"I won't be," she promised in a soft voice, "I could never be afraid of you, Erik. No matter what your past was like, I know you for who you are now. No matter what you hide from the world with these masks, it could never change the way I see you through my eyes."

"And how do you see me?" he wondered aloud, his face inches from hers. Christine felt her pulse quickening.

"I see you as my savior," she replied, "I see you as the man who raised me up from sorrow and gave me the gift of life and music. I see my truest friend and dearest part of my heart. As the other half of me I cannot imagine life without."

He seemed to ponder this a moment as he stared deeply into her eyes, as if searching for something. She heard his breathing grow ragged and nervous as he reached up towards the base of his mask with his free hand. She held her breath as he held the edge of the material tightly in his fingertips. She knew how big of a step this was for him, and gave him a moment as she took his other hand and brought it up to her lips, gently kissing it. She wanted him to be as comfortable around her as she was with him. If they were ever to be more to one another some day, she needed him to trust her. Needed him to show her at least one of his many secrets.

"I don't want to...I can't, Christine. No, I'm sorry. I won't risk losing you, not to this," he told her, his voice breaking as his hand fell away in defeat.

Christine raised up her hand and cupped his unmasked cheek in her palm.

"Erik, it would change nothing. You know very well I'd have to be a madwoman to not want you by my side always," she told him gently, repeating back the very words he'd once spoken to her. With those words she raised herself upwards the captured his lips with hers, letting go of his hand and bringing hers up to hold the nape of his neck. Erik seemed taken back by the unexpected kiss, but then returned it with a fiery passion as his arms fell to the small of her back and pulled her up tight against his body. As their lips and tongues danced and his hands trailed up and down the bodice of her gown, Christine felt her head swimming as she drifted into a blissful state. His kisses were gentle and careful, all the while being demanding and just rough enough to remind her of the power inside him. She never could have imagined a kiss to be so divine. It was true perfection.

When they finally pulled away from each other she saw the happiness of a thousand songs in his eyes, and the very same expression of her own face reflected in them. She then raised her hand and, without a single hesitation, tore away his mask.

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	14. The Devil's Child

The Devil's Child

1870

 _Erik_

Erik was still too lost in the pure ecstasy that was Christine's kiss to see her hand reaching up towards his face. In a mere flash of seconds he felt his last defense against the cold, cruel world ripped away from him. The cool draft in the room hit the right side of his face, the jagged flesh fully exposed to his precious angel. He knew in that moment that the life he'd pictured for him and Christine was gone forever. She would scream and run from him, crying for help from the monster before her. They would take him away, back to a life of torment and torture. He would die a disfigured skeleton in some cage far away from her, dreaming night after night about the day he'd let her slip away from him. He didn't dare breathe as he waited for it all to commence.

Yet Christine didn't make a sound as she looked up at him with curiosity sparkling in her eyes. He watched as the hand that she held his mask with slowly lowered to her side. She then tilted her head just a bit and he watched her eyes as they scanned him over slowly and carefully. He wondered with dread what she must be thinking. He wondered when she would scream. Finally, after what felt like hours, she spoke.

"I thought it would be worse, to tell you the truth," she told him, a hint of humor in her voice.

Erik choked back a sarcastic laugh. Was she mocking him? "Worse?"

She nodded her head and continued looking him over. "Mhm."

He wondered if the damn woman had lost her mind completely. Maybe she needed her vision checked, or perhaps a few nights in an asylum. He knew very well what she saw looking at him. He'd seen it every time he'd looked in the mirror over the past twenty-six miserable years of his existence. The right side of his face was marred with purplish red distorted flesh, starting from the top of his hairline wrapping all the way down to the corner of his twisted mouth. The skin across that cheek was thin and stretched with the white of his bone visible just beneath the surface, giving him an almost a skeletal appearance. And none of that was helped by the sunken eye socket or the missing bottom side of his right nostril. No, he was truly a grisly sight to behold. She couldn't possibly see past that. Surely she was either being cruel or had gone mad completely. He could fathom no other explanation.

"There's no way it could be worse," he told her with disgust as he turned to move away from her in shame.

He felt her her hand fly up and catch his shoulder the second he moved. Her grip was so tight he could feel her nails through his coat.

"Don't you dare turn away from me, Erik Destler," she commanded, turning him back to face her. "Now look here, I don't know what your damage is, but I do know that you aren't even a quarter of the monster you think you are!"

"But I am!" he argued, swatting her hand from his shoulder with more force then he meant to. "Look at me, dammit! I'm repulsive! Don't lie to me and tell me that I'm not, Christine. I know better."

Christine looked as though she would cry as he raised his voice but held it in, instead crossing her arms over her chest defiantly and talking to him as though he were a child. "I _am_ looking at you, Erik."

"Then why must you lie to me," he pleaded, still fuming. He took a step forward and loomed over her, watching as she flinched in response. "See? Right there! Yes, I can tell how you really feel beneath your kind facade, Christine. I can tell that you want to run. So go! Don't try to act brave for me. Just go on and leave already. Leave me just like everyone else did!"

"I'm not going anywhere!" Christine yelled back, standing up straight and moving one of her hands to his chest, shoving him. "If I seem scared it is only because you're yelling at me! Why are you so angry all of a sudden? No more secrets dammit! Who the hell hurt you so badly that you must assume the worst of _everyone_ in this world?"

"Who didn't!" he sneered, raising a hand to his heart, right where Christine had pushed him. He slumped down in defeat on the room's spare chair and ran his hand overtop his hair before sliding it forward down over the disfigured side of his face. He heard a shifting and peered up to see Christine now kneeling in front of him, offering his mask in her tiny hands. He took it from her and brought the wire up over his head, settling it into place. He didn't dare look into Christine's eyes though. He was too mortified in himself. He'd yelled at her, scared her even. And not because of his face, but because of the monster that his face brought out in him.

"Have you ever been to the traveling circuses that come by here in the summertime?" he asked her quietly after a moment of silence, staring down into his lap.

He heard Christine take a few steps away, then heard an awful scrapping noise as she dragged her vanity bench over beside him and took a seat.

"I've heard of them," she replied, confused as she waited for him to continue. "The gypsy ones are quite popular. Why? Were your parents gypsies?"

"No," he said solemnly, "Quite the opposite. My parents were Germans, as I said before, though I can't remember much else about them. I never met my father that I can recall, and my mother was quick to be rid of me. At age four she'd taken me out into the town after dark, hiding in the shadows for much of the time. She was leading us towards the woods. I can only assume in desperate hysteria that she meant to drown me there in the Seine. But, as this was just my luck, there had been a band of drunken circus gypsies passing through the streets that evening. One of them must have spotted us and came over to draw us in with the rest of the crowd they were gathering. I assume that's the first time my keeper saw saw my face. Before I knew it he was handing my mother a few silver coins and dragging me away by the wrist. I remember screaming and crying after her as she disappeared from sight. I suppose that man may have saved my life in a way...but in doing so he condemned me to something even worse than death."

Erik nearly lost his train of thought as the vivid memories all seemed to surface at once. He recalled all the lights and colors of those days, but none in detail. It was a shame, in a way. All the cities and towns they'd toured, and yet he'd only ever experienced the sights and sounds through scraps of curtains from behind bars. He turned his head to see Christine staring down at him, hanging on to his every word. He wondered if his story was too much for her. He could already see the bewilderment in her eyes from how his mother and father had abandoned him. But then again she had only ever known her own father, who was loving and caring towards her up until his final, dying day. He envied her for that.

"I traveled with that circus of gypsies for years, until I was almost eleven years old. They kept me locked away like an animal. I lived on minimum rations and had the least sanitary living conditions you could think of. I doubt even convicted thieves and rapists live as disgustingly as circus freaks are forced to."

He took a moment to let out a sharp breath and refocus his thoughts before continuing to the most gruesome part of his tale.

"Each night, after the sun had set, my cage would be revealed to the public eye. I was an oddity, known simply as the Devil's Child, and the master of my attraction would tell stories of how demons had borne me into this world. He would tell the masses that looking into my eyes could curse your soul. It was in his cruel words that I eventually learned to speak a moderate amount of French. During his tales he would beat me, burn me, and whip me - sometimes all three in one go - to let the audience know that they were safe as long as he was there to protect them. After they were done mocking me and yelling foul words no child should hear, they would toss him coins and the bastard would kick me aside with his boot to collect them. I nearly withered away there, countless times in that damned cage. Sometimes I was so sick from infected wounds that I was delusional from fever, making me appear even more savage to the crowds. There were times I could hardly see straight and would pass out in the cage mid-act, but that man never cared. Whether I was dead or alive was of no concern to him. He didn't see me as a child. Only as a source of expendable income."

He watched as Christine face fell more and more with each word he spoke. Her eyes were watering as she reached over to take one of his hands in hers. She squeezed it tight as she looked at him with a mix of sympathy and horror. Tears silently began to stream down her cheeks.

"A look like yours is what finally saved me," he whispered to her, reaching up to wipe her tears away. "Adelaide Giry had looked at me that night we'd arrived in Paris just the same way you're looking at me now. While the rest of the young ballerinas had laughed and thrown things at me she'd wept, looking at my caretaker with such revulsion as he tormented me. As the audience exited the tent that night she'd been the last one to go, still looking at me with pity from afar as she slipped out into the night. Before her, I'd come to accept my fate. Realized that I was doomed to live and die in that cage. But that changed that night. When I saw her looking at me like I was human, it was then that something inside of me snapped. I reached down and found the closest thing I could, which happened to be the rope they usually bound my hands in, and I wrapped it around that bastard's neck until he turned blue and fell face first into the straw. I hadn't even known what I'd done, but Adelaide had heard and immediately come running back to help. It was with her assistance that I escaped before the police took me away to be hanged for manslaughter. She hid me here, in the opera house. I've been here ever since."

He waited for Christine to say something. After all, he'd just admitted to her that he had murdered someone before. Yet in her eyes there wasn't a trace of disgust to be found, only compassion.

"I'm sorry," she finally said sorrowfully, "I understand now. Not having your mask, it makes you relive those horrors, doesn't it?"

All Erik could do was sigh and nod, feeling drained. He'd never had to tell his entire story, not even to his adopted sister. It had been difficult and straining to recall such events. Erik could almost feel the scars on his back as if they were fresh, as if his caretaker were still kicking him aside and ripping the flesh open all over again with that damned whip of his. He had never done anything to hurt anyone as a child, and yet he'd known all the hatred of the world. He'd never been shown an ounce of love. His own mother had refused to look at him, and finally had sold him for only a handful of money. He wondered in the back of his mind if she were still alive. If she ever regretted what she'd done to him. If she'd ever had any other children. If she had, had they been doomed to his same fate because they'd inherited this cursed disfigurement? He couldn't imagine another child having to suffer as he had. He didn't realize he had started sobbing until he felt Christine stand up beside him and wrap her arms around his head, pulling him close to her chest in comfort.

He couldn't even began to describe how much he loved her in that moment. His own mother had never held him and yet Christine, after seeing his true face, still wanted him close to her. All his years of suffering were made right with her by his side. She was like a lantern in the darkest of nights. He felt as though his soul were cleansed by her touch.

"Had it not been for all those years of misery, I never would have met you," he realized aloud, turning to look up at his Christine through misty eyes. In the haze of his tears she looked like an flawless angel, sent to rescue him from his personal Hell. She was perfection in beauty and soul. She was every dream a man could have. He stood up and took her hands in his. "If all that pain was the price I had to pay to stand before you today...I would gladly go through it a thousand times over. Have no doubt of that."

He took her roughly into his arms and kissed her deeply, not giving a damn about the past or the world outside her dressing room door. She was here now, and she was his for this moment. Nothing else mattered. There was no sin, no cruelty in the world. Only Christine. He let his right hand drift up and twist in her wild hair, to which she responded with a soft moan against his lips. Something stirred in him then, a need he couldn't describe. An urgency. He felt himself pressing his body against every inch of hers as he slowly moved her back against the nearest wall. She was small in his arms when he finally, reluctantly, pulled back to look down at her. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks flustered. Her breathing was slightly ragged as she caught her breath and he felt his eyes drift down to the rise and fall of her breasts. It was almost too much for him. The effect she had on him was maddening. Every muscle in his body ached to take her. He imagined unlacing the back of her corset and watching it hit the floor...

"I'm sorry," he told her, taking a step back to gather himself. "That was...inappropriate. I promise I can control myself. I'm not an animal."

She was young, and he didn't want to scare her by being too forward in his wants and desires. Though he was as inexperienced as she, he was also much older. He knew how fickle a seventeen year old's mind could be. He didn't want Christine doing anything she would regret later. And he would not steal away her innocence. Not in some godforsaken dressing room of all places. Christine deserved better then that. She deserved a beautiful four poster bed in a queen sized chamber with silken sheets and a wedding band on her finger. Which he would have to wait for. But that was no matter, he knew he could wait. He would wait forever for her to be his. He had waited this long, hadn't he?

"You have nothing to apologize for," Christine giggled, leaning against his side and placing a hand on his chest, "You're only human, you know."

"Human," he repeated softly.

Not monster. Not demon. Not phantom. Just human. How he treasured that word. How he treasured that this woman before him had never once had a cruel thought in her head. She was almost too perfect for this world. He turned and gave her a quick kiss, much more chaste than the exciting one from a moment ago. He then took her hand in both of his and held it between them, almost in a prayer as he spoke to her.

"You can't even begin to understand the depths of my love for you Christine," he told her gently, "You give me hope for the future I never thought I'd know."

She smiled up at him with adoration in her eyes.

"Trust me when I say I do understand, Erik," she said softly, "Because I love you just the same. If not more."

He kissed her again. "Not possible."

* * *

Erik was leaving Christine's dressing room for the night, finally giving her time to ready herself for bed, when he bumped into a very cross woman standing in the darkness of the hallways. The figure grabbed his arm roughly and led him around the corner of the staging area. There, under the candlelight of one of the lanterns, Adelaide looked at him with such venom in her eyes that she could have poisoned a snake. She gripped her cane in her free hand with such intensity that the white of her knuckles was visible under her skin.

"You were in there an awfully long time Erik," she accused him in a hiss, "May I remind you that that _girl_ in there is like a daughter to me! I knew your little lessons weren't appropriate. Look at you! I very well should have put a stop to this nonsense years ago! Why, if you think-"

He could see the fury in Adelaide's eyes as they welled up, and could only imagine what she must have thought. Yet, at the same time he began to feel sorry, he also became angry and offended that she would accuse him of such things. Other than Christine, Adelaide was the only other person in this world who knew him for for he was, and to have her make such assumptions. He cut her off mid-speech.

"For one, Adel, Christine is _not_ a little girl anymore. She is a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. Secondly, how could you think for a _minute_ that I don't have the purest intentions in regards for her well-being? You know how much I care for her. To accuse me of such vile things! Why she was only a child when I met her!"

Adelaide's face softened, but only a tad. She almost looked wounded by his words. "I wouldn't know _anything_ of your intentions, Erik! Or of anything to do with you at all these days! When was the last time you wrote to me? Hmm? When I saw you a few days ago, walking around _up here_ , I thought for certain that I'd lost my damn mind!" Her eyes watered and she sniffed, tears threatening to fall. "Why didn't you tell me...anything? What did I do to you that you no longer come to me?"

Erik hadn't realized how long it'd been since he'd last written to his foster sister. It had to have been at least a week before he had taken Christine to his lair. He'd left her in the dark since then, just the same as he had Christine. And on top of that, he knew she hadn't physically seen him in years. She'd probably only been able to recognize him that first night by his mask, for he'd been a young teen the last time they'd spoken face-to-face. He comfortingly placed a hand her shoulder, the anger draining out of him as he looked at the years of wear and tear on her face. His sister was only in her thirties, but nearly looked fifty from the stress she always put herself under.

"I think we should have a cup of tea," he insisted calmly. "I think we have a lot to catch up on, sister dear. And then I think you need sleep. A lot of it."

Adelaide relaxed and smirked with a flat expression, leaning on her cane as she attempted to act indifferent. "That would be alright...I suppose."

Erik eyed the way she leaned on her cane with disgust. He hated how much she depended on it, but he knew the vigorous dancing Adelaide had pushed her body to do in her twenties had left her with terrible hip and leg pain that would never go away. She'd looked after him in the past. Perhaps it was his turn now to care and watch over her.

"Right then," he said gently, placing his hand behind her shoulders as they walked down the hall. "Where did we last leave off?"

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* * *

 **This was one of my favorite chapters to write because a lot happens here in such a short time. How did we like the unmasking? Erik's backstory? How about the snippet with Erik and Adelaide? Their relationship as foster siblings is one of my favorite things to write.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	15. Dark Shadows

Dark Shadows

1870

 _Christine_

Following the final production of the week, Christine found herself far more exhausted then she had been over the last four shows. The toils of performance had finally caught up with her, leaving her with weakened legs and heavy eyelids. She wearily leaned her forehead against her vanity's frame while Erik made quick work of the pins in her hair. She would be grateful to have the next two days off. That would be two whole days with no pins. Over the past week she'd grown to hate the little buggers. Still though, Erik had complimented them the other night, telling her that they'd shined beautifully all the way up to the box seats, and so she supposed she could deal with them again the following week. After all, she wanted to look her best in her first production as a lead.

"You look so worn, my love," Erik said, his voice laced with concern, "You need to make sure you get plenty of rest tonight."

Christine nodded her head in agreement and raised a hand to cover her mouth, trying but failing to stifle a yawn. Erik laughed lightly and kissed the top of her head, setting the last of the pins down onto the vanity table. He then gave her a soft look through his reflection in the vanity mirror.

"You know, when I told Raoul that you and I had plans for Tuesday I forgot I hadn't even asked you yet," he said, "Would you care to accompany me on a night out tomorrow evening?"

Christine turned in her seat and smiled up at him. "Honestly, that would be wonderful."

He reached down and took one of her hands, kissing the top of it. "Excellent. We can finally celebrate your birthday, then. I have a surprise I've been dying to give to you."

Christine's free hand flew up to her diamond choker, to which Erik shook his head. "No, something else."

Christine could only laugh. This man would spoil her to death at this rate. She knew he had money though and what he chose to spend it on was up to him, so instead of protesting she was simply grateful to be the object of his admiration.

"I can't wait," she told him happily.

Erik bent down to give her a quick kiss goodnight before leaving the room so she could finish getting out of her costume. She'd known ahead of time that his visit to her dressing room that night would have to be brief. He had a meeting tonight with the managers about this week's responses and numbers, and he couldn't keep them waiting. After all he was their employee now, and in his new position they needed his opinion on such matters. She almost laughed at the thought. If only the they knew just how long her angel had been running these shows. He could probably do it without them.

Erik left the room, closing the door behind himself as he went. She stared after him, remembering how handsome he'd first looked stepping through that doorway only a few nights ago. She'd been so upset that he'd gone away and then, as if to answer her prayers as he had when she'd been a child, he'd appeared once more.

Christine couldn't hide her excitement at the prospect of spending the following evening out and about with her angel. It would be their first official date of courtship, one finally spent outside of the walls they both confided in on a daily basis. Something about that was exciting. She would have to remember to wash her hair in the morning so that she would look good for the occasion. But then again, she supposed it didn't really matter. She didn't think they would be going anywhere fancy. Something about Erik made her think of him as the simple romantic type. When it came to his music she knew he was loud and outspoken, but the little touches like the roses he left for her or the way he helped her with her pins seemed more his style for romance. It was a gentle and clever way to woo over a lady, and she all too happy to be the lady he'd chosen to woo.

"Who would have ever guessed? Myself and the phantom of the opera," she said softly with a little giggle, reaching behind her neck to unfasten her choker. She carefully placed it on her vanity and then reached behind her back to pull at the knot that strung her corset tightly around her midsection and ribs. Yanking it undone, the rest of the laces loosened and she took a much needed deep breath. One obviously wasn't able to lace her own corset, but a girl could certainly take one off with no trouble at all when it it became annoying enough. The bodice dropped to the floor with a thud and she reached down to pick it up and fold it over the back of her spare chair. Then she pulled at the lacing of her skirt until it opened just enough to drop down as well. She crossed the room and took her nightgown off its hanger and went to pull it over her head when she caught a glimpse of her naked profile in the full-length mirror along the back wall of the dressing room.

She couldn't help but notice how much her body had changed in the last three years. She could recall once being far too skinny and boyish in shape. Now she was lean yet curvy in all the right places. Her breasts were small but full like a woman's and her hips much rounder on the sides then they had been previously. She had those features plus her long dancer's legs and toned arms from all of her years of ballet. She smiled at her reflection, confidence swelling inside of her as she pulled her nightgown over her head. She then turned a bright red shade of embarrassment as she wondered what Erik would think of body the first time he got to see it.

Thoughts such at that made her smile something wicked, yet tremble with shyness all at the same time. She knew Erik was nothing short of a gentleman, fully ready to take their relationship at whatever speed she desired. And yet the other night when he'd pinned her against the wall he'd been like a tiger eyeing his prey, ready to devour every inch of her. She'd seen the wild lust and hunger raging in his eyes before he'd stopped to collect himself. But what if he hadn't? How far would she have gone? In that moment she'd felt every inch of his body pressing against hers. _Every_ inch. And she'd craved him just as badly. She'd felt parts of her body needing him, _demanding_ satisfaction in a way that frightened yet excited her.

Before Erik, she'd never even kissed a man. She'd never had to worry about her virtue. She would have to be careful with him the next few nights and make sure she let him know that her father had raised her to be a proper lady. It was in these times that Christine wished her mother had survived birthing her. She would have loved to have a mother to gossip with and teach her about things such as these. She'd seen such a relationship in Meg and Mme. Giry over the years. They'd sit over tea or breakfast and Meg would gawk about some stranger who'd caught her eye. Meg had both a friend and an adviser in her mother. Christine was an orphan without a family. True, she loved Meg and the Madame, but she would never really be Meg's sister or Adelaide's daughter. She knew and accepted that long ago.

But at least her parents dying and leaving her to the Madame was better than what Erik's parents had done to him. She could never imagine anyone so cruel in heart as to sell their own child. Christine didn't know the first thing about being a mother, but she did know from literature and observation that children were like a piece of your own soul. Christine assumed Erik's mother in that instance to have had a very blackened soul indeed. She was just glad that somehow, even without role models to love and guide him, that Erik had grown to have the soft heart he did. She'd replayed the story he'd told her of his past countless times now, and each time it had made her angrier and angrier. Each time she'd almost found herself in tears yet again at the injustice of it all. She wished he'd never have had to go through any of that. She wished she could somehow take away all the burdens she knew he carried with him each and every day like a great weight upon his shoulders.

She sighed and sat down at her vanity bench, undoing the ribbons of the ballet slippers Mme. Giry had given her. She'd tried her best to wear them in before the performances had started but found that they still weren't shaped enough to stop her toes from being bruised beyond belief each night. She physically winced as she pulled them off and set them underneath her vanity. She then looked down at her black and blue toes in disgust, wishing people like the managers and patrons knew just how much sacrifice went into being a ballerina. They weren't just pretty ladies. They were warriors for their art. Christine was positive that over the years she'd broken her toes, and feet themselves, at least eight times. But in her line of work, injuries such as that were a 'walk it off' kind of thing. You got used to them.

Her daytime slippers were a welcome relief as she slipped them on. They were worn in, scuffed up and soft, with just enough room so that they were weren't constricting or skintight like her dancing shoes were. She sighed in blissful relief to the feeling of them as she reached up to her left ear, pulling out one of the diamond earrings Erik had given her. She gently set it by her choker before reaching up to right ear. When she did though, she grabbed her earlobe in horror, feeling no earring in its place. She quickly jumped up from where she sat in a panic and looked under every surface in the room, scrambling about. She knew how much those earrings must have cost and would be mortified if she had to explain to Erik that she'd already lost part of the wonderful gift he'd given her. Tears threatened to fall as she hectically fluffed through her skirt and bodice to make sure it hadn't fallen and gotten caught in any of the bead-work.

Thinking the only other place it could be would be on the stage, Christine quickly made her way into the hall and back up towards the opera house. As she walked, she noticed almost all of the lanterns that lit the building had already been dimmed down for the night. There was no noise in the dark halls as she quietly ran down them, stepping lightly. As she moved, she secretly hoped no one would see her, considering she wasn't completely decent in just a thin nightgown. She couldn't imagine her embarrassment if one of the managers had stayed behind after their meeting and spotted her. Trying not to think about it, Christine opened the door to the back staging area. From far away, she could make out the bright lights behind one of the doors on the back wall that led to the stagehand's quarters. She knew after hours the men made a habit of sitting around in their rooms drinking, playing cards, and who knew what else, so she didn't think she'd have to worry about running into any of them up on stage. They were busy doing whatever it was they did in the dark. Besides, she was much too focused on her task at hand to be distracted by all the boisterous noise they made. She barely gave them another thought as she passed by.

She hadn't realized the stage itself would be almost pitch black with the curtain drawn. But the theatre itself had no windows, and the draped curtain completely blocked out any lingering light sources. She doubled back and grabbed one of the lanterns off the wall in the hall to use as a light. Only then did she realize how heavy they were. She had to hold it with both hands as she made her way through the blackness, staring down at the floorboards the entire time. She sincerely hoped none of the others dancers had stepped on it. She couldn't imagine how much that could have hurt someone's foot if they had.

Somewhere behind her a loud metal clang sounded, causing her to jump and let out a small surprised yelp of fright. She quickly laughed it off, knowing she had nothing to fear in her own home. After all, it wasn't like she was scared of the phantom or anything. The passing thought of the phantom made her worry though as she started to realize her earring was no where to be seen. Would he be mad that it had only taken her a few days to lose something he'd picked out specially for her? She knew even if he did get mad he wouldn't say anything. He would just brush it off like it were nothing, even if it bothered him. He cared too much of her feelings to say otherwise. She knew him well enough to know that.

"Lookin' for 'his?" Christine heard a slightly slurred voice say from somewhere behind her.

She jumped again, startled by the deep voice she didn't recognize. She hadn't heard anyone else walking around backstage, yet she supposed this figure could have been the same person who'd knocked something over just a moment ago. As she turned and raised the lantern she noticed in the flickering light the figure to be Joseph Buquet, the stagehand manager. Bouquet was a larger man in his forties, and had been one of the first people to ever spread rumors of the opera ghost, saying that he'd once confronted the phantom himself...and lived to tell the tale. He staggered slightly in step, and Christine could smell the reek of wine and whiskey coming off his clothes even with him standing a good meter away. She almost gagged at the smell, but instead tried to give him a polite and earnest smile when she saw the small, sparking object in his outreached hand. The tiny diamond glittered beautifully, even from just the tiny bit of gaslight from her lantern. She laughed in relief as she approached him and reached for it.

"Oh, thank you so much, monsieur!" she exclaimed. "I was so worried I had lost this!"

She took it from him and held it close to the lantern, checking it over to make sure it hadn't been damaged. Sure enough, the earring was unharmed.

"It's nothin'," Buquet told her, "I figured it'd be yoursss. It was shimmerin' the same ways you was out there."

Christine didn't realize that he'd begun to step towards her as she was still looking down at the earring in her hand.

"I knew it was ah real gemstone, and tha' you'd come back f'r it. I was a-waiting on you. Back here in th' dark..."

Christine froze at the way he said those words, a shiver going up her spine that chilled her to her core. She couldn't even get in a breath to cry out as she felt Buquet suddenly reaching out, grabbing her by her nightgown. She heard the lantern in her hands fall with a loud thud to the stage floor, where it rolled away and went out with a hiss. The backstage area once again became dark and bleak as they fell to the ground. Christine felt one of Buquet's sweaty hands clamp down over her mouth hard, banging the back of her head against the hardwood. She was slightly dizzy as she kicked her legs at him, struggling to get out from underneath his heavy weight.

"Now don't you go an' be like that," Buquet laughed drunkenly, "You're the one up 'ere on stage every night, teasin' all of us will how _flexible_ you are. You damn dancers, the lot of you. You're just _askin'_ for it."

Christine felt hot tears pouring down her face as she began to fear for her very life. She felt Buquet grab both of her wrists together with one large hand and pin them up behind her head at a wretched angle, causing her to flinch back in pain as she felt her already sore muscles strained and pulled. That movement only seemed to encourage the monster in him though, as he reached down and Christine heard the zipper of his pants come down. An entirely new feared seared through her then. She flailed about, attempting to bring her knee up into his gut, but he had both her legs pinned under his within seconds. With one last prayer and the last ounce of fight Christine had in her exhausted body, she yanked her head hard to the left, giving her just enough space to open her mouth and bite down as hard as she could into the flesh of Buquet's palm. She immediately felt the sickening and sappy taste of warm blood as it entered her mouth. Buquet let out a yelp of pain and punched the side of her face, square in the cheek, in retaliation. She felt her head whip to the side as her face bounced off the flooring, causing a ringing in her ears. Still though, she had the opportunity she needed. Praying someone was near enough to hear her, she screamed.

* * *

 _Erik_

"I think all-in-all, this week was a fine success," M. Andre was concluding as he opened the door to his office, letting Erik and Firmin exit before himself. "M. Destler I must say, your insights were an absolute delight. I'm glad to have such a knowledgeable person on our team. I very much look forward to future productions with you at the helm!"

Erik smiled and shook the man's hand. "Gentleman, I thank you. I truly look forward to-"

His words were cut short by the sound of a woman's bloodcurdling scream from somewhere in the main theatre. Erik recognized the high-pitched call immediately as all of the blood drained from his face and a sickening feeling twisted up inside him.

"That's Christine!" he alerted the managers, not thinking another thought as he took off in a sprint down the hall. "Christine!"

He ran much faster than the aging managers did; he ran with purpose. He heard their steps falling farther and farther behind him as he found himself nearly running into the door of the back entrance to the theatre. He swung it wide open and stepped inside, panic gripping his heart like a viper squeezing its prey. He heard a loud thump sound from somewhere onstage in the darkness and immediately the phantom in him was awoken. He couldn't see a damn thing in the blackness around him but slipped nonetheless flawlessly over and around each of the obstacles before him. After all, he knew this staging area like he knew the back of his own hand. He found the rope to the main curtain and pulled the knife he kept in his coat pocket out, cutting it clean in two. He heard the curtains whirling open as he found the lower gas panel and opened it up, moving his hand around until he found the same wire he'd connected years ago with the one in the rafters. He'd pulled it hard, and at once the entire stage was illuminated one by one by the bright gas lanterns.

As light flooded the stage he hooked the wire in place, turning his head to see across the stage none other then Joseph Buquet himself, stumbling to stand up as fast as he could. Beneath where the lowlife stood, Erik saw the still form of his Christine lying sprawled across the ground. At once he was moving, a fury inside of him stirring like none he'd ever felt. If his Christine was badly hurt, if she were dead, he'd kill this man a thousand times over. Buquet must have seen the murderous look in his eyes as he approached, because he turned heel to run. The drunken man stumbled over almost immediately though, falling face down to the floor. Erik was by his side in an instant, where he kicked the sorry excuse for a man square in the ribs from the side, rolling him over. It was then he realized Buquet's pants were undone.

"I'll fucking kill you," Erik sneered in promise as he dropped himself atop Buquet. The stage manager tried to cover his face, letting out a pathetic whimper as he moved, but Erik was much stronger, landing punches to his forearms and then to his head as his simple defenses fell away. Over and over again Erik felt his fists as they made contact with the man's face. He heard the sickening snap of Buquet's nose as it broke, yet no hit seemed hard enough to appease the phantom inside him. Everything was a blur as his eyes began to water and he cursed the man with every fiber in his being. He felt sticky blood as it poured over his knuckles, and watched Buquet's head roll to the side as the man fell unconscious. Unconscious didn't satisfy Erik though, and he found himself reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his knife. He would gut this man like a fish for touching his precious Christine.

He felt the handle of his knife in his pocket and gripped it tightly. He was about to pull it out when two arms hooked under each of his own and pulled him away.

"For God's sake Destler, he's down and out! Stop it now before you kill him!" he heard M. Andre shout.

Erik couldn't focus on either of them. Couldn't think straight as he pictured his poor Christine lying there on the ground, that dingy cockroach still standing overtop of her. His fog and anger lifted though as he realized he had to go to her. He felt guilt pierce through him. He pulled himself from the manager's grips' and stood up, turning and racing to her side. She was awake now, he praised God that she was alive, but crying hysterically on her side, pulling her knees up towards her chest. He felt his own eyes tearing up as he dropped to his knees and tried desperately to hold her, to show her that she was safe now. As soon as his hands touched her though she thrashed violently, swinging her left arm up towards his face with great force. He reacted and caught it, holding it there, suspended in the air.

"Christine, it's alright! It's me!" he shouted, lowering her arm slowly to her side.

"It's me," he repeated softly as he watched her antagonized face flash with realization. Her entire being seemed to break apart in front of him then. At once she was throwing herself up into his arms, sobbing into his coat, gripping and digging her nails into his back. He held on to her just as tightly in return, running his hand down her hair. Tears ran down his cheek as he felt her body shuddering from the great force of her sobs. He wished there were something, anything he could do to make this all go away. But he couldn't. He was powerless to console his Christine in this hour.

"Oh, Erik..." She cried out his name in desperation before she quieted down for a moment, struggling to take a breath, gasping for air. He'd never heard her sound more heartbroken. So shattered. He pulled back and tilted her face up so that he could see it. In the light her eyes were swollen and red from crying. He also saw the left side of her face swelling up as a large bruise was forming. Her right temple was also larger than it should have been. He raised up his hand and tried to stroke her injured face with the back of his hand. The small gesture made her flinch away from him in whimper in fear. His heart seemed to break even more in two at that moment, for his poor Christine's physical injuries would now be mental ones as well.

"I've got a doctor coming for the both of them!" he heard Firmin shout from the other side of the stage. Erik turned to see that they had already dragged Buquet's unconscious body away and out of sight, probably out of fear that Erik would again attempt to kill him. Smart men they were to do that.

"Just relax Christine," he told her, bringing her head slowly back into his shoulder. If she were dizzy from the head injuries he didn't want her to get nauseous trying to focus on looking around. "I've got you."

"I can't-I just...I can't! How can you possibly expect me to relax!" she cried, her body trembling as he watched her tug her nightdress down feverishly with her hands. A very dark question was burning in his mind at that gesture, but he didn't dare ask it. He didn't know if he could handle it if the answer was yes. Yes or no though, he still wanted the stagehand's blood either way.

He continued to try and calm Christine down, but it was to no avail to try and speak to her. In the end, after a few minutes had passed, he ended up doing the only thing he knew how to do to truly comfort her. He sang to her. Like he had when she was little. He did so softly, in almost a whisper, for no one else but her to hear.

He sang to her an English song he knew she loved. One of protection and care. He stroked her hair and felt her relax a little in his arms. He found himself staring off into the distant darkness of the theatre seats as he sang, feeling as though he had failed her. He'd sworn years ago to always protect her, and yet tonight he hadn't been there when she'd needed him most.

"Destler, the doctor is here. If she can walk I told him we'd go to my office with her," M. Firmin said, reappearing on the side of the stage. Erik looked up and nodded, pulling back just far enough to see Christine's face.

"My dear, can you walk?" he asked her softly. She barely nodded her head. He swiftly brought her to her feet and took off his jacket, draping it across her shoulders. He then placed one hand around her waist in support and helped her towards the stage door. He noticed she was limping slightly, and also noticed something shimmering, swinging back and forth in the light from her right hand. He recognized it after a moment to be one of the earrings he'd given her. He touched her hand gently and opened his palm beneath it. She responded mechanically, dropping the diamond onto his palm like it was a vile of poison. He stuck it in his pocket absentmindedly as they continued to walk through the dark shadows of the hall, towards the office where the doctor awaited them.

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* * *

 **What a long, difficult chapter to write. I honestly feel drained writing such terrible things. It is not for the sake of purposeful torture that I wrote this scene though. This will tie into the larger plot and be vital for further developments. Also, I felt the need to write this scene because sexual assault is so common - even now in modern times - and it helps to bring awareness to readers who may not know quite what an epidemic it is. My younger sister is in college now and all I can think about is the awful stories you hear about universities. These things _do_ unfortunately happen - and to the most innocent, most trusting of people. And not everyone is saved in time. If you or someone you know needs someone to talk to, please feel free to message me. I'm a good listener and I'll always respond to my inbox. Know that I care very deeply for my readers. Remember that you're all so precious and you matter so much.**

 **Your friend,**

 **Nicole**


	16. A Safer Place

A Safer Place

1870

Erik

The doctor greeted Erik and Christine outside the manager's door. Erik assumed the man to be in his mid or late thirties by the look of him. He had thinning red hair, a short beard, and small glasses that seemed to Erik to be far too pushed up onto his nose. He wore a simply grey suit and carried by his side a black medical bag. He introduced himself briefly as George Larson, an immigrant doctor from America. Erik in turn quickly introduced himself, then Christine as the patient, while also complimenting the man on his French. The doctor opened the door to the office and gestured for them to step inside. Erik balanced Christine's weight against him, half carrying her. He noticed the room had changed since the meeting he'd attended earlier. It was now well lit and the large mahogany desk had been cleared off of all the paperwork the managers usually left strewn about.

"Please ma'am, do come and take a seat," Dr. Larson instructed, pulling out one of the chairs from the desk.

Erik loosened his grip on Christine's waist and watched as she stumbled over to the chair as if she were intoxicated. In her movements she became nauseous and fell forward to her knees, grabbing both arms of the chair as she began to dry heave. The sight looked painful, and Erik was taking a step forwards to help her when Dr. Larson raised a hand in his direction for him to stop. The man reached into his bag and pulled out a disposable container, handing it to Christine. She gratefully took it and held it close to her mouth as she slowly stood and wobbly raised herself up into the chair. She looked destitute and horrified all at once as she looked up and met Erik's gaze. Knowing Christine she was probably embarrassed to be getting sick in front of him. As if cared about anything in that moment besides her health.

"Mr. Destler, I'm going to have to ask you to step outside while I perform a physical assessment. Miss Daae will have to remove some of her garments so that I can look for any underlying injuries from her assault. It wouldn't be proper for you to stay."

Erik had never heard a more ridiculous request. He would not leave Christine alone with a man so shortly after one had attacked her! The very prospect of such a suggestion insulted and angered him. He knew his Christine needed him right now in her time of distress. The doctor would have to make an exemption.

"I'll have to insist I stay doctor," Erik protested, hoping he sounded polite yet firm.

"I'm afraid you know very well why I can't allow that," Dr. Larson told him. "Her surname is Daae, not Destler. Which makes you neither spouse nor family. Which means I have every right to ask you leave, for the privacy of my patient. Now, if you'll please."

Dr. Larson gestured past Erik towards the door. Erik began to open his mouth in protest, taking a very threatening step towards the doctor. In that moment, Christine looked up at him with a pained look in her face, which made him stop a moment as she spoke.

"Erik, I'll be fine," she said quietly, seeming as though speaking caused her pain. "Please, just...just do as he asks. I want this night to be over. The sooner the better."

There was a pleading tone in her voice that he couldn't bring himself to say no to. Making one last glance at the doctor, he turned and stepped outside the door. He leaned back against its frame as it shut quietly behind him, picturing Christine as she sat inside alone with the doctor. If she needed him, he was only seconds away, he reminded himself sullenly.

As the minutes slowly ticked by, Erik worried about what the doctor would find during his examination. He knew very well what Buquet's intentions had been during the assault. He just prayed now he had made it to Christine in time. If such actions had transpired and that man had defiled her, his beloved would have wounds that would never heal as her physical ones would. He knew this from experience. She would also somehow find blame in herself. That was the just kind of woman he knew her to be, unfortunately. Pure in heart and soul, his Christine could see no wrong in others. She always wanted to believe in the best of people, no matter how plain as day a crooked soul was to the common eye. Knowing her, she would probably even go so far as to defend the stage manager in trial, saying he was intoxicated at the time and would never have acted like such a brute if he were sober. But Erik knew different. A sober man and a drunk man were one in the same. A person couldn't blame their cruelty on the effects of alcohol. It was the sober man that chose to drink, after all.

Erik wondered where they'd taken the man. To the hospital most likely, with the extensive injuries Erik had given him. He glanced down as he raised his right hand into the light. Flexing his fingers he watched dried blood crease and flake off his knuckles. Both of his hands were sore to the bone, and he was partially glad, being a musician, that he hadn't broken any of his fingers. He would have gladly taken a broken hand or two any day though if that could have saved Christine from the beginning.

 _I shouldn't have left her alone_ , he thought, angry with himself. _This is all_ my _fault!_

His frustration was to no end at the events that had transpired during his meeting. He couldn't make any sense as to why God had decided to mark Christine a victim. He thumped his fist against the wall beside him, listening to the echo resonate throughout the dark, silent hallway.

"You're one cruel bastard," he whispered, staring up at the ceiling.

God had forsaken him years ago when He'd allowed the gypsies to beat him and torture him for profit, and again tonight when He'd allowed his Christine to become innocent prey to a monster. He wondered how holy folk went about praising every action the greater power wielded, when the power seemed to do nothing for the few worthy people who deserved mercy. He had been a child in his damnation. Christine was barely more than that. A young woman with a passion for life and a heart full of love. He knew that this ordeal might change some of that. He worried that she might even fall into a state of depression as he had once.

No, he couldn't let that happen. She was too young to lose hope in this world. He would be there for her every step of her recovery, and then by her side still after as long as she wanted him there. He was her angel after all, even after all these years. She would never be harmed again. He swore it. He'd die before he'd let that happen.

Erik nearly fell backwards as the door to the office suddenly opened up. He stepped away from it as the doctor slipped out into the hall, shutting it softly behind himself.

"Forgive me, Mr. Destler. You had not mentioned before that you were Miss Daae's fiancé. If you had simply stated such we wouldn't have had an issue before."

Erik's eyes widened in surprise as he wondered why Christine had lied and told the doctor they were engaged. Sure it was his intention for their future, but not until the time was right. He then realized that the doctor probably wouldn't release information regarding her exam or her custody to him afterwards unless he were her intended. She was smart, that woman. He'd give her that. Even in times of hardship she was quick-witted.

"Nevermind that," Erik stated, "I trust she is going to be alright?"

The doctor sighed and ran a hand down his beard in deep thought, looking up at Erik with hard eyes.

" _Alright_ is subjective term, Mr. Destler. She's been through something quite terrible tonight."

Erik almost got physically sick thinking about what that meant, but the doctor continued, saving him from becoming ill all over the flooring.

"She was not raped, sir," the doctor added quickly, "If that was the concern here. Your fiancee is still pure in that virture. But the act _was_ attempted, as you could very well tell when you got there. I would say if you hadn't found her when you did...well, let's just be glad you did, right?"

"How bad are her injuries then?" Erik asked, relief flooding through him that she had not been through the ordeal he'd feared. Concern still filled him in regards to her physical well-being though. "She was getting sick to her stomach in there. Is that something we should worry about?"

"Her assailant struck her multiple places, mostly to the head. I'd say it was pressed to the floor multiple times. What she's becoming ill from is a mixture of a nasty concussion and the panic attack she had after the event. I also believe she has at least two minorly fractured ribs, which means she won't be able to sing this week. Perhaps next week if she's up to it, but between her head and her overall state of health I think she needs at _least_ the week off."

"She can have the year off it she needs. She can't lose her position here, I can guarantee that," Erik assured the doctor. If the managers even tried making Christine perform before she was ready he would set them right. He would even turn back into the phantom if necessary.

"Very well, then," the doctor said, "Just make sure you watch her closely tonight with that head injury. If she gets worse take her to the hospital immediately. Otherwise, bed rest. Sooner rather than later."

Erik shook the man's hand in parting. "Thank you, Dr. Larson. I will make sure payment gets sent to you first thing in the morning."

"No need for that," Dr. Larson protested, "You two have been through enough. I can't take payment for something of this kind. Just rest, the both of you. Try to move on from all this."

"Again, you have my thanks."

The doctor nodded a curt goodbye and Erik watched as he disappeared down the hall. When he was gone Erik turned to open the door to the manager's office. When he looked inside he saw Christine staring down at her feet, lost to the world. He tried to close the door behind himself quietly, but the small click of the handle was enough to make her jump in fright.

"I'm sorry," Erik told her quickly, "I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just wondering whether or not you were ready to go back to your room for the night. I wanted to walk you so I know you make it there safely."

Christine raised a hand to the left side of her ribs, taking in a deep, pained breath. Erik wondered how he hadn't seen her guarding her side earlier as they'd walked to the office. He should've noticed she was injured there before.

"I don't want to go to my dorm," Christine admitted quietly, trying not to use too much air. "Please don't make me go there. My home there doesn't feel safe to me anymore. I wouldn't sleep a wink if you left me there by myself."

Erik hadn't planned on leaving her completely alone. In fact, he doubted he would ever sleep again unless it were right outside her bedroom door, protecting her.

"Where shall I take you then, Christine? Name the place. If it will make you feel safe I will take you anywhere you wish to go."

Christine looked up at him, pausing to think for a moment. Erik tried not to look at her purple cheek or swollen temple. He tried instead to meet her gaze but his eyes kept drifting. Kept seeing where he had failed her.

"Take me to your home," she finally said, grabbing onto the arms of the chair to push herself up. She almost fell from dizziness as she stepped forward, but Erik reached forward to grab her arms and steady her. "No one know it exists. I'll feel safe there."

"If that's what you want."

Erik allowed Christine to set the pace as they walked. He could tell from her labored breathing as she moved that her ribs were bothering her, but he didn't dare say a word. If she needed to stop to rest, she would say so. He would make no demands of her. He knew she needed to be in control of herself for now.

"We don't have to walk all the way to the chapel," Erik told her, leading her towards her dressing room. She looked up at him in puzzlement as he held her by his side in front of the large mirror in the back of the room. He reached up with one hand and found the hidden rod that latched the entrance to his lair shut. Pulling it out, the mirror slid to the side, revealing the shadows of his home far below. He felt Christine stiffen at the sight of a passageway in her dressing room.

"This passage was hear long before you used this room," he told her in assurance, "I used to take this route when I needed to move instruments below. It was a simpler time then."

Christine accepted his words for what they were and they began to descend into the caverns beneath the opera house. Stairs took their toll on Christine, and Erik felt her leaning more and more against him for assistance as they went. At the bottom of the stairs, he couldn't bear to watch her gripping her side any longer. He very careful picked her up and walked softly, as to not shift her around too much and cause her pain.

"Thank you," was all she whispered.

He held her close and made his way to the gondola, carefully placing her inside. The ride down the water seemed to be making her ill, so he tried to move them as quickly as he could while still being safe. Soon enough, they reached the shore. Only a few long-burning candles were still lit when they docked. It was barely enough light to move around in safety. He stepped out first, walking around to light a few more so that he could see where they stepped. He then helped Christine up and led her towards his bed. She gratefully laid herself down across it, her figure beautifully strewn across the black silk of his sheets. Within seconds her eyes began to close, the exhaustion and turmoil of the day becoming too much for her. He went to turn away when he felt her small hand reach for his. He looked back at her to see, of all things, concern on her face.

"I don't want to put you out in your own home, Erik," she said, "Will you not sleep beside me?"

Erik wanted to, more than she could know. He wanted to hold her throughout the entire night and make sure she knew just how safe and loved she was. But he could not bring himself to lay beside her in his own bed. Something about that would seem very wrong to him after tonight's events. And even if tonight had not transpired, she was still a single woman, and in French society that came with rules.

"That wouldn't be proper," he explained to her, "You are not a married woman. A bed should be yours and yours alone, my dear."

"But where will you sleep then?" she asked.

He crouched down and ran a hand through her hair, smiling softly. Even now, she was putting his feelings above her own. How could one person be so full of thoughtfulness?

"To be honest, I don't think I will be able to," he told her gently. After all, how could he possibly find any rest after what had happened?

"Please try," Christine insisted, "If you don't, you may fall ill." She smiled faintly. "And if that were to happen then who would care for me?"

He noticed her trying her best to make her words sound lighthearted, but it wasn't enough for him. She was trying too hard. He could tell she wasn't even remotely close to being to the point where she could make light of the situation. He bent down and kissed her forehead lightly.

"I'll try for you," he promised.

Christine seemed content with his answer, and was fast asleep within moments. Erik studied her hard, making sure her breathing was regular as she rested. The concussion she'd received worried him. Part of him wished they'd taken her to the hospital for overnight observation, but maybe her being here was for the best. Erik knew his lair had plenty of traps if someone tried to reach them. They'd never even make it to the lake. She was safe here, just like she'd told him. He decided to give her some peace and left her alone, traipsing across the stone with an absent mind as he found himself seated at his piano. He softly tapped on a few keys, turning to see if the sound would awake his Christine, but as he gazed at her sleeping form he knew she may as well have been dead to the world.

Erik sighed and wearily opened up his leather-bound composition book, staring down at his opera. If he wasn't going to sleep, he could at least attempt to get some work done. Though he was only two acts into his composition, having gone back a hundred times over to edit his score so far, he loved it nonetheless. It was different and new. Nothing like the stage had seen before. But with every passing minute as he read over the pages, he wondered now if if he could write the ending to it as he had originally planned. The ending he'd constructed in his head was a dark one of false seduction. It would shock audiences, and separate him from other composers the same way the American Edgar Allan Poe had separated himself from other authors in America.

Reading through Act II, Erik realized he'd always pictured in his head Christine playing the role of the his character Aminta, a sweet and innocent girl longing for love and falling prey to the hands of Don Juan's desire for her. But would playing such a role remind Christine of tonight? He didn't want her to think that today's terrible event had been the inspiration for Act III's finale. Perhaps if he changed the ending, just a tad, that would help. Aminta's characters was good and pure, more beautiful than any other maiden in the town. That was why Don Juan coveted her so. But perhaps if, over the course of the night while the two characters dinned, Don Juan developed more human feelings towards her then the seduction would not be false, but full of promise just as Aminta longed for. He could reveal himself to her, riddled with guilt for pretending to be Passarino, and she would forgive him. The problem with that though was that that sounded like a happy ending. He didn't want a happy ending for his opera. Drama's were far better when they ended...well, dramatically.

And so he had to keep it tragic. He began to make lists of ideas for an ending following this new plot line. Perhaps if Passarino were to also develop feelings for Aminta? He could plan to stab Don Juan over dinner - they wouldn't even need another set for that scene, they could still use the dinner set from Act II -and Aminta could rush to push him aside, taking the blade in her own heart. Don Juan could then slay Passarino, and weep over the body of his beloved as the curtain fell. Yes, he concluded, that sounded much better.

He began to write it all out, lost in the creative process.

"I am a _horrible_ person," Erik eventually stated with a sarcastic laugh as he began to jot down the final demise for his characters in his booklet. He was focused in on his work, thinking of lyrics for such a scene, when he felt a hand fall upon his shoulder.

"I don't think so," came an angelically soft voice from behind that startled him. He turned around, dropping his steel pen to the floor and watching it bounce away. He hadn't heard Christine leave his bed. He must have been too absorbed in his opera. He gently placed his hand on her waist. Though she looked ten times better than she had earlier he couldn't help but worry over how she was faring.

"Christine, my dear, what are you doing walking around? You need rest," he told her, concerned.

Christine, to his surprise, laughed at him, grabbing her ribs in response but continuing to smile nonetheless. "Erik, I've been asleep for hours. I can't tell down here but isn't it morning by now?"

Morning? Erik turned back to his piano and flipped through the pages of his score. He'd written so many now, without even realizing just how many hours had passed. Act III's lyrics were almost completely finished. Had he really stayed awake all night? He hadn't done that in quite some time.

"Erik, did you sleep at all?" Christine brought a hand to her hip and eyed him.

He smiled sheepishly in response, "Well...it would appear not."

Christine leaned over him, glancing past his shoulder. He could see her eyes skimming his score and quickly turned around to shut the cover of his booklet shut. Christine looked offended as she gave him a pointed look.

"Don't fret," he assured her, "It's just that...it isn't done yet. I wouldn't want you to see an incomplete work."

"You're composing?" she inquired, a wondrous and excited curiosity in her voice. "What is it? An aria?"

"An opera, actually," he told her proudly. "I hope to have it completed by the ball on New Years Eve so I can present it to the managers."

Christine stared at him in admiration, smiling. "There really isn't anything you can't do, is there?"

He felt his stomach sink. Her words were prideful, but his weaker side felt as though they mocked him, because there _was_ something he couldn't do. Today, or yesterday rather, had made that plain as day. He couldn't keep her safe from harm. He'd promised himself when she was little that he would keep her out of harm's way always. Yet as he gazed up at the side of her face that was turning bright purple he felt shame burning through him. He reached up tenderly and barely brushed his fingertips against that mark. She must have known what he was thinking for this time she didn't flinch away from his touch. Instead she raised up her own hand to take his, kissing his knuckles.

"Don't do that to yourself Erik," she pleaded, "You _were_ there for me."

He pulled his hand from hers, upset. "Not soon enough, no. I wasn't, and now I have to look upon the consequences of my absence."

"Dear please, don't be ridiculous," she said, turning to glance at the large mirror he'd uncovered after he'd completed his new mask. Christine stood there a moment, studying her face. "You know, it honestly isn't even that bad. And neither is my side. I'll be back to performing in just a few days' time. You'll see."

"That bruise may still be visible in a few days," he reminded her darkly. He didn't know whether or not she would want to explain to the rest of the ballet what had happened.

"Not a big deal," she replied to him, nonchalantly, "I'll just have to borrow one of these, then." She giggled, tapping a fingertip to his mask playfully. Erik couldn't help but smile at her antics as she then crossed over to his bed and sat on the edge, pulling the edges of his sheets around her shoulders.

"A cloak too, perhaps? What do you think? Would I make a dashing phantom?" she asked with coy innocence.

"You're unbelievable," Erik told her with a faux offense, laughing. "Really, you are."

"And yet you love me all the same," she replied with a teasing smile. She turned her body to lay fully atop the bed on her side as she looked at him. He stared at her in wonder, at the way she looked so beautiful stretched out in the candlelight. And that smile. Her smiling face in that moment meant so much to him after such a long, sleepless night. It was hopeful, like a breath of fresh air. He couldn't help but smile back. For no matter what, she was right, he loved her all the same. More and more with each passing day.

"That I do."

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* * *

 **Ugh, this chapter. I have so many feels about it. Did it give you feels as well? Review and share them feels.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	17. Recovery

Recovery

1870

 _Christine_

Christine awoke the second morning after her attack far more sore than she had been throughout the entirety of the previous day. Dr. Larson had warned her that that would happen, but she still hadn't found herself fully prepared for waking up feeling as though she'd be hit by a carriage. Every muscle in her body seemed pulled to its last fiber and her head throbbed like a stone rolling down a hill as she inched her way across the sheets of Erik's bed, making carefully slow movements and winching as she went. As she twisted to sit up she could feel the now familiar sharpness in her ribcage, causing her to have to turn her torso slightly to the side to ease the pain. As she did, her eyes took their much needed moment to adjust to the dim and hazy candlelight that illuminated the dark cavern around her. She then swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, holding onto the small mahogany end table nearby for balance.

Next to where she'd placed her hand on the table she noticed a small plate of fruits and bread that had been left for her, as well as a glass of water and two of the pain tablets the doctor had prescribed. She smiled at Erik's thoughtfulness as she took the plate over to the sitting area of the island and swallowed the pills gratefully before attempting to relax and eat. By the time she was finished she could feel her pain beginning to lesson, much to her relief. She set the plate aside and stood up, deciding a decent wash was due. She hadn't gotten the chance to bathe herself since the incident and still felt the need to cleanse her skin of all those haunted touches.

Erik had given her the full tour of his home the day before, showing her where the hidden doorway to the rest of his home was amongst the many large mirrors on the back wall of the island. The doorway led to a hall with three more rooms. The first room was the one she had spent most of her day in yesterday. It was a small library, no bigger than her dorm room upstairs, but the collection inside of it was vast. Floor to ceiling shelves lined the small space, with a large and comfortable sitting chair in the corner of the room next to a single five-foot candelabra that acted as a reading light. The second door led to a simple kitchen, though based on appearances alone Christine assumed it had been years since Erik had actually cooked anything in there. A thin layer of dust covered many of the surfaces and a large spiderweb was strung up in the corner above the pantry. The only spotless part of the kitchen was the far right wall, which held a large metal rack full of assorted, imported wines.

The third was his washroom, which Christine found just as grand today as she had when he'd first shown it to her. Each corner of the washroom was illumined with crystal oil lamps, causing the golden trim on its ceiling to shine. The walls were exposed stone, yet had been brushed with something to make the grey rock almost white in color. The washbasin and mirror in the room were large enough for at least three people to get ready in front of, and towards the back wall of the room there was a gloriously sized clawfoot bathing tub with a black velvet curtain that draped down from the ceiling for privacy.

Walking over to the tub, Christine pulled back the curtain and noticed the shelf next to it to be full of things that weren't there the previous night. A dressing robe and towel were folded neatly in a stack on the far edge. Next to them were glass vials of assorted water perfumes, along with multiple soap bars of various size and color. Christine twisted the brassy knob on the bathtub, surprised at the heat of the water that came out of it. She placed her hand underneath the stream and smiled at the feeling of it running over her fingers. It was soothing, like a liquid blanket. This wasn't the icy chill of the opera house's washrooms that were carried in and hand-pumped days later. No, far from it. Erik had stated the water for his washroom was collected outside from rainwater, where it stayed in a metal basin heated by the sun and then came down through the pipes. She hadn't thought the idea even sounded plausible when he'd first explained it to her, but now she was a believer.

As the tub slowly filled Christine happily opened each of the different oils, eventually settling on a comforting lavender scent. She wasn't sure how much to put into the water, and carefully added it drop by drop until the smell of it filled the room with a lovely yet subtle texture. She cut the water off when the tub reached the halfway mark and slipped out of her nightgown, letting it fall to the floor. She shivered at the cold chill of the cavern air as it tingled her naked skin and, as quick as she could move comfortably, lowered herself into the bath, breathing out a blissful sigh at the wondrous feeling of the warm water as it encased her body it a cocoon of comfort. The bath slowly trickled away the last of her body's aches and allowed her to contently drift away into the beautiful lavender field she pictured in her head for quite some time. It was a welcome escape.

As the water became cooler she used one of the soap bars to wash her hair and body before rinsing and then, sadly, draining the tub. As she stepped out she again felt the cold chill of the underground air biting at her bare skin. She hastily dried herself with the towel and pulled the dressing robe around her as thin trails of water fell down her back from her damp hair, making her shiver. She exited the washroom and went to the kitchen to make herself some warm tea, then returned with her cup to the main island where she perched herself on the sitting chaise there and continued the book she'd started reading the day before. It was a first-edition copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ , which she had already halfway devoured with great pleasure. The novel was written in English though, not French, and although Christine spoke English almost fluently, she found every few chapters there were still certain phrases she couldn't quite understand. She bookmarked those ones with a scrap of parchment each time she came across them, that way she could ask Erik to translate them later for her.

When Christine had finished her novel it was only mid-afternoon. She set it aside with a sigh, feeling a longing inside of her for the opera house above. She'd never gone so long without being on the stage or in the studio, and the feeling of just sitting a house was foreign to her. She wasn't sure for to spend the hours as they slowly ticked by. She was so used to singing and dancing and her time spent with Meg. She knew she could never be a housewife, if this was the tedious pace of it. She got up from the chaise and fluffed a hand through her hair, letting some of the loose droplets fall to the stone floor as she wondered absentmindedly around the island. She eventually found herself wandering over towards Erik's upright piano, running her fingertips along the cool, smooth surface of the keys. She couldn't play, but loved the idea of being able to. She tapped on a few keys in experimentation, feeling a smile spread across her face. The piano, like the violin, had always intrigued her. Though they seemed so simple in appearance she knew that somewhere inside of them there were complex melodies just waiting to be discovered. She sat at the bench and tapped across the keys, listening to them as they went lower and higher, recognizing some of the notes from her scales. She suspected she looked very much like a toddler in that moment, making useless noise instead of music. Still, she found great amusement in pretending the prattle sounded like something grand.

She went to stand up after a few minutes, and set her hand atop the piano for balance as she did so. In doing so, she felt something there shift. She raised her hand and noticed Erik's black composition booklet lying there, having been blended in with the surface color of the instrument. She studied the fine leather cover for a moment with curiosity. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was written in brilliant golden ink across the cover in beautiful penmanship. From the side she could see numerous creases in the interior pages, as if the booklet had been tossed around for years without much care. As she turned it towards her she realized the booklet was at least as thick as any novel she'd read. Erik wasn't kidding when he said he was working on an opera. It looked to her like he had written the entire score already. Christine knew she shouldn't be touching it, but found herself settling back onto the bench and opening it up with an eagerness far too great for her to contain.

She was flipping through random pages when her eyes caught sight of a female character's vocal section. She smiled and began to hum the tune while she figured out how to should sound aloud.

" _No thoughts within her her head but thoughts of joy_ ," she sang under her breath, " _No dreams within her heart but dreams of love..._ "

She realized that the twinge in her ribs wasn't so bad as long as she sang softly, and excitedly flipped backwards through the score of the opera, searching for more parts for the character of Aminta, whom she assumed was the main female role. She eventually found an aria in Act II, where Aminta's character is found sitting alone in a guest room, preparing for a dinner with a man she's never met before named Don Juan. The solo was titled: _A Perfect Life._ Christine began to sing the lyrics quietly to herself.

The words had Aminta pondering her decision to go through with her plans to meet Don Juan. Christine paused as she read the stage directions. Aminta was to pick up his letter that had first summoned her and read it again. She was to sing his words aloud and mix her own feelings in as she did so. Christine stood up as she read Aminta's stage directions to walk to stage center and stare up at the audience as she cries out: _"_ _Part of me is saying I'm so near where I belong!_ _Part of me is saying...something's wrong!_ " She let her hushed singing voice trail out into the cavern, shivering at the beauty in the lyrics. She felt a mildly sharp twitch in her ribs from the higher note, but it was worth it to taste Erik's song on her tongue.

"Aminta's role suits you."

Christine jumped, startled by Erik's voice as the opera slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a echoing slap. She turned, cheeks growing pink from embarrassment, to see him casually leaning against the wall just a little ways off, arms crossed over his chest and an amused smile plastered across his face.

"Honestly Erik, make some noise when you come into a room! You gave me a fright!" she scolded.

"Apologies mademoiselle." He laughed, walking towards her. "Bad phantom habit I suppose. Would you suggest I start wearing a bell?"

Christine rolled her eyes, bending over to retrieve the opera. She held it out sheepishly for Erik to take from her, suddenly feeling guilty for snooping through it after he'd made it clear it wasn't finished. She expected him to at least be slightly cross with her for being a prying little Pandora, but instead he simply took the booklet from her hands and dusted the cover off, gazing down at it with a look in his eyes she couldn't quite name.

"Would you...that is, would you be interested in hearing more of it?" he asked after a moment, almost shyly, much to Christine's surprise.

She nodded as Erik hesitantly opened up the first few pages and set it on the piano rest. He took a seat at the bench and gestured for Christine to sit beside him. She did so eagerly, giving him enough space so that he could bring his right hand up to the keys. Erik began to play an almost hauntingly complex melody for the opening number. It started slow and dark and then quickened with excitement, finally coming down to a dramatic rest. As he hit the last note his fingers seemed to drift in place as he got a faraway look in his eyes. It was almost doubtful, as if he was suddenly so unsure of his work. He then put his hands in his lap, turning to her with a gentle expression as he explained the storyline to her.

"Act I takes place in battle where our leading man, Don Juan, is disfigured in face from injury. He was a very handsome man before that you see, and becomes somewhat of a recluse after returning home, in fear of what people will say. His closest friend is Passarino, who tries to comfort him by giving him a cloak to wear and taking him out for a night on the town. The two become intoxicated at a local restaurant and are entranced by a maiden who works there as a dancer. Don Juan lusts over her - this vixen Aminta - and makes a wicked plan to seduce her. He writes to her explaining that he can offer her everything she's ever desired if she be his and his alone. Aminta works day and night to pay for the costs of living, and deeply desires a husband so she can retire to a simpler life. And so she goes to his home, hoping that what he intended by his letter was indeed a wife. She doesn't know that Don Juan's true plans are to have his way with her and then dump her back into the streets.

As you can tell by now, Don Juan is used to playing games with women and truly is an awful, awful man. For the seduction of Aminta, he goes as far as to switch identities with Passarino after she arrives. Don Juan then, as Passarino, dines with her, and the plan is for her to be "caught" dining with a common man and not the master who summoned her, so that Don Juan can suggest they go hide in the bedroom to avoid being shamed. But, as Don Juan in disguise dines with Aminta, he finds her to be utterly fascinating, and goes as far as to say this could be the woman he's dreamed of all his life. One that could change him for the better. He steps aside to tell Passarino this and Passarino gets infuriated by his friend's sudden change in character, thinking the woman must be a witch that has enslaved his soul. Passarino decides to mercy kill his best friend, to free him of her spell. Aminta saves Don Juan in the finale by jumping between them as Passarino attempts to stab him in the back, taking the dagger to her heart. Don Juan then kills Passarino, and holds Aminta as she dies."

Christine was clinging onto every word Erik spoke, deeply lost in the summary of his opera. She found his story to be vexing, both complex and unique, just like its creator. He truly was a musical genius.

"Do you think it could work?" he asked, turning away from her to stare down at the booklet, "Do you think people would come to see such a story?"

The way Erik spoke sounded so unsure of himself. So much unlike the confident musician she knew him to be. Could he truly not see the depth of his own brilliance? How astounding his score sounded? Christine placed a hand up on his shoulder.

"I've never seen you like this when comes to music, Erik. Music is the one thing you know better then anyone else in this theatre. Have confidence, you silly man! Your opera will be brilliant, and people will come from everywhere to see it." She gazed out over his piano. "Honestly, can't you just see it now? Imagine everyone's delight when you announce we'll be performing an _original_! The first of its kind. Why, it'll be grand!"

Her words made him smile contently as he continued to play for her, this time the aria she had been singing earlier. There was no hesitance in the way he played now. He played the instrumental confidently and it turned out to be almost more beautiful than the lyrics themselves had been. The song was soft and miraculous, ringing sweetly throughout the cavern, blessing the stone around them with its sound. Christine could have drifted away with the that melodic perfection had Erik not stopped after a moment to reach for her hand and speak. When he did, she turned to look up at him and saw him staring off into the distant darkness of the lake.

"You know Christine...life is almost too surreal for me right now. I never thought in my youth I'd have these kind of opportunities presented to me one day. I never thought I'd be granted the chance to have my work performed on the stage or to have a wonder of a woman such as you in my life. It's almost like every secret desire I've ever had is slowly becoming a reality. Tell me my dear, what _is_ a man to do when all his dreams come true? What, my love, comes after that?"

Christine leaned lightly against his shoulder with a smile, staring down at their entwined fingers with a warmth spreading through her heart.

"I'm not sure. But I do know I can't wait to find out."

.

.

.

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* * *

 **Other titles for this chapter include: Christine Takes a Bath, Christine Reads a Book, Christine Eats Some Fruit, and of course, everybody's favorite: Nicole Has Writer's Block.**

 **I feel like the one redeeming quality in this chapter is the full summery of Don Juan. I always wanted to know it so writing my own version was like writing a fanfiction within a fanfiction. Boom. Fan-ception.**

 **xoxo**

 **-Nicole**


	18. First Date

First Date

1870

 _Erik_

Christine returned to the opera house after just five days of medical leave. Too short a time, in Erik's opinion, but he knew she was drowning in the darkness of his home, longing to be up upon the stage once more. During her absence to the theatre Erik had, much to his displeasure, been forced to call upon Carlotta to return to the stage as Christine's understudy, since no one else had yet been trained in the role. He hadn't expected her to agree without throwing a fit first, but to his surprise she gratefully did, as she had yet to find new employment and was running low on the funds necessary to provide for the lavish lifestyle she was used to. Erik had warned her that her return to the Populaire stage was temporary, but that she would be sent off with severance pay and letters of recommendation to other opera houses in exchange for her help. Oddly enough she had been very polite as he'd listed off these terms, truly becoming a tolerable person to work with.

After Erik had walked Christine to her dorm that afternoon so she could change into fresh clothes he had called upon the doctor, as his one condition for Christine performing again was a follow-up physical. Christine had been extremely adamant to him that she was fine now that her bruises were gone, but Erik would not allow her to injure herself if she wasn't fully healed. When Dr. Larson arrived Erik allowed them to use the office he'd been given by the managers for the assessment, politely offering to wait outside this time. In less then ten minutes Christine had emerged from behind the door shooting him a smug 'told-you-so' look before giving him a quick kiss and running off to find Meg, who had been quite the pestering gnat in his ear the over past few days as to her dear friend's whereabouts.

Erik shook his head with a laugh as she bounced out of sight, reaching into his coat pocket and giving the doctor his due payment. The man opened his bag and placed the money inside. Zipping it up, he looked over at Erik curiously.

"She healed a lot faster than I thought she would," he observed. "Emotionally, I had guessed she would still be a wreck. It's only been a mere matter of days though and she's walking about as if the whole ordeal never happened. It's...odd almost. Good, I must admit. But odd."

Erik nodded his head in agreement. "She's an incredibly strong woman, my Christine. She's been through a lot in her life, but nothing has ever been able to hold her down. Besides, she needed to get back to the show. I think that's what's helped her most, getting back to the norm of things. I could tell how much she yearned for it while she was resting. She missed singing, the lights...all of her friends especially. She's definitely not one to stay cooped up."

"My wife is the exact opposite. She prefers to stay home with the children. We started having them quite early in our marriage. Number three is on the way, actually."

"Congratulations, doctor," Erik told him.

"Thank you," Dr. Larson said, rubbed his temple a moment. "I just hope this time it's a boy. I've got two little girls right now, Angelica and Eliza, and I love them to death! But little girls are a handful. Very emotional. _All_ over the place. I need another man in the house. Or at least to get out every once in a while to escape their shrieking."

"Why not here?" Erik offered. "The next show is tomorrow night. Dress the family up; I can see to it that you all have tickets. It's the least I can do for what you've done for us."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly accept that. Besides, the girls are only five and nine years old. They might talk throughout the show."

"Or be inspired by it," Erik mused. "This is a wonderful place to study. Your girls are almost old enough. If one were to show interest I would be sure to put in a good word with the ballet mistress for your family's application."

Dr. Larson thought that offer over a moment before reaching out to shake Erik's hand enthusiastically.

"You know what Mr. Destler, I'll take you up on your offer. I bet my girls would love this and I know Annie would be thrilled to have such an extravagant date night."

"Excellent, I shall see you to your seats personally tomorrow night then, Dr. Larson."

"Please, George is fine Mr. Destler."

Erik laughed and patted George on the shoulders as he walked the man towards the door.

"Erik, then. If we're to be informal with one another."

George smiled at him in agreement as he put on his hat, tipping the brim of it in goodbye before stepping out the side entrance to the street. Erik knew the man and his wife would enjoy the opera, and hoped his children would find the same magic in it he that himself saw. He loved seeing music inspire others, and children could have such a wonderment in their eyes when coming to the theatre for the first time. Though most people only brought their older children, it was still a thrill whenever Erik's eyes caught sight of someone young in the box seats near him as they leaned over the balcony and held their breath at each new sight and sound. It reminded him of when he had first discovered music. Wonderful, life-saving music. The very air he breathed.

He crossed over to M. Andre, who was busy flirting with a ballet dancer half his age, and tapped his shoulder. As M. Andre turned around to face him he noticed the dancer nod her head in great appreciation as she hurried away from the man.

"M. Andre, do we have any tickets left for tomorrow's showcase?" he asked.

"I'm afraid we don't. We had a few more this morning but we've since then sold the lot after announcing mademoiselle Daae's return. Everyone's been so gossip happy over why she disappeared after such a triumphant run of shows, and gossip does bring people running you know."

Erik nodded. "In that case, I'll need extra chairs brought up to my box. Four of them, if you could find someone to do so."

"In your box, monsieur?" M. Andre looked very taken back. "I'm surprised. I've never seen you watch a show with company."

"Special occasion," Erik told him, "I have friends joining me."

M. Andre looked weary, probably wondered what sort of friends a man like him could possibly have. Yet Erik smiled at his choice of words. George Larson was indeed the first real friend he'd made since...well, since Adelaide and Christine. Everyone else around the opera house he just seemed to work with. But Larson was an easy man to like, with his educated mind and humorous disposition. Holding conversations with him was light and pleasant. He'd be sure to introduce Christine to them after the show. Perhaps one day they could even become one of those pairs of couples who did things together on special occasions. Christine might enjoy that, he deduced.

* * *

 _Christine_

Christine sat at the vanity in her dressing room as Meg stood behind her and began to brush out her long hair. This was something the two of them had done for years now. Whenever one of them needed to talk about something serious they would groom one another, as they both found the act to be comforting. As Meg worked Christine started from the beginning of the week and explained to her best friend all that had transpired over the past few days, starting with her attack. Upon hearing Buquet's name spoken aloud, Christine saw Meg make a face as if she's smelt something foul, and Christine found herself grow nauseous in a similar fashion as she recounted what had happened.

"He was always a pig," Meg stated with discontent after Christine had finished. "But to attack you? Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry. You must still be so shaken up."

Christine folded her hands in her lap and thought about that a moment. "Actually, it's weird, Meg. A part of me is, but mostly I'm just relieved to know he can no longer hurt anyone else. I mean, what happened happened. I can't escape that. It was probably the scariest night of my life. But I'm fine. Nothing happened and I know he's behind bars now. So I think because of all that I'll be able to leave it in the past and move on from it."

"Well, all I can say is thank God monsieur Destler was there," Meg reiterated.

"Please Meg, his name is Erik. Don't make him sound so old."

"Well, I mean he _is_ older than we are," Meg pointed out, pondering that fact as she tapped her chin and raised an eyebrow in Christine's direction. "Not that you seem to mind though. The two of you seem to be rather...friendly with one another. As it were I never got a chance to talk to you about it but I did see you two together after one of the shows. He was holding you from behind and you were laughing in his ear. The entire thing was very sweet looking, if not a tad bit too sensual for the way I know you to be. You are seeing each other then, I presume? Officially?"

Christine laughed. "Yes Meg, Erik and I are an item. Forgive me for not keeping you in the loop of things."

"For how long?" she pressed.

"A while...in our own way, I suppose." Christine looked down at her hands, knowing there were certain things even Meg must never find out.

"That makes no sense, Christine. Oh, and how did the two of you even meet?" Meg wondered aloud. "I mean...he just started working here. Yet you two act as though you've known each other for years. Your body language around him is so relaxed and comfortable, not like I see you with too many people."

"Well," Christine told her, "before he was directing here he was my vocal teacher." That seemed innocent enough to tell her.

"Wait a minute. He was _the_ tutor?" Meg gaped, "Oh, Christine, that's _so_ scandalous! But I can definitely see how it must of happened. Teacher and student in tight-knit quarter, singing together songs of romance and woe...his hands over yours showing you a scale on a piano...the two of you slowly getting closer and closer to one another and then, without realizing it, falling in love."

Meg sighed dramatically with her hands folded together and leaned against the vanity as they both laughed.

"You know you really should write romance novels," Christine teased, "what with that wild imagination of yours."

"Wild imagination or not tell me that's not in a way how it all came to be?"

Christine picked up the brush Meg had set down and finished off the ends of her own hair.

"Actually, it does have some truth," Christine admitted. "Obviously Erik is a little older than I am, as you said, but it wasn't until I was of legal age that I think he even glanced at me in such a way. I think we both realized our feelings at the same time, actually. He was so handsome standing there before me. He sang to me and we just sort of gravitated towards one another. You've never heard him sing before Meg, but his voice is beautiful. Like an angel's almost."

Christine turned to see Meg blushing and covering her mouth with both hands in excited glee. She squealed a happy noise and placed a hand on Christine's shoulder.

"My word Christine, listen to you! You're in love! Oh, this is wonderful!"

"Meg-" Christine tried to interlude but Meg was off in her own little world by this point.

"Don't try to deny it Christine. I've seen the way you two of you look at one another. It's destiny, I can tell. A woman like me has a knack for these sort of things you know."

"I'm not denying anything," Christine stated with a laugh, making Meg freeze up and listen intently. "I love everything about Erik. I wouldn't change a thing about him."

"Not even...?" Christine saw Meg shy away in embarrassment and they both knew what she had almost asked in that moment. She immediately seemed to regret it, pausing to think before continuing. "Christine...I'm not trying to say that his face has anything to do with who he is...but the man does wear a mask everywhere he goes. You can't tell from afar, but up close it's clear as day. The gossip is that he was in a fire. Is that true? Does he really have a horrendous burn underneath there? It is terribly frightening to look at?"

"Actually," Christine replied, "It has a lot to do with who he is. But no, it isn't. I've seen it. I suppose it would be starling to see if you didn't know him but for me it's just another part of who he is."

That was the simple truth, Christine realized. Though Erik's deformity was much more intense than something such as a burn, it hadn't scared her in the least to see it. She had simply accepted him for who he was. She loved him through and through, and nothing could change that. Especially something he had no control over.

Christine was still discussing things with Meg as they left her dressing room and walked through the halls towards the main ballet studio; Meg had rehearsal scheduled for that afternoon and couldn't afford to be late again or the Madame would surely throw a fit. They were almost there when Christine caught sight of Erik walking towards them from the other direction. He was dressed in fine black pants and a nicely tailored navy dress blouse. It was probably the most laid back she had ever seen him dressed. He walked in what she assumed was supposed to be a casual manor, though it still seemed to present a certain air of authority to her. Meg winked at her as he smiled at them.

"I want details later," she whispered giddily as she quickly skirted off into the studio.

Erik seemed puzzled by Meg's fleeing as he pulled Christine in for a quick kiss.

"Now what was all that about?" he asked her suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing really," Christine told him innocently. "Meg and I have just been gossiping about you all day is all."

"All good things I hope?" He almost sounded worried, which amused her.

"All good things, don't worry. She was just curious to know more about the man occupying my time is all. Wants to be kept up with every detail."

Erik grinned down at her devilishly, pulling her in tightly against his chest as he ran his hand slowly down her lower back,causing a pleasurable shiver to shoot up her spine.

" _Every_ detail?"

Christine laughed as he teased her. She loved seeing this playful side of him. It was not one he showed often enough, but whenever he did it lit up her world. He was definitely no longer the dark and mysterious phantom she'd once known, but now the lighthearted man she'd grown to love. She took his arm and led him down the halls and out the front door of the opera house. She'd been craving the outside air for days now after living beneath the theatre. To her utter delight the weather outside was bright and sunny, even though it was late November. Her Swedish skin glowed extremely fair outdoors and his complexion, she noticed, also seemed even paler in the direct light. He had an excuse though, as he'd spent most of his life hidden away underground. Yet hidden no longer was he. He stood beside her anew, eyes closed with a beaming smile as the sun kissed his skin. He seemed to be treasuring every second spent in it.

"There's a cafe around the corner of Rue Breur. Fancy some tea?" she asked after a moment had passed.

Erik turned to her with a delighted look. "Tea sounds wonderful."

* * *

 _Erik_

Erik couldn't help but feel very much as though he were in a lucid dream. He couldn't keep himself from smiling like a child as he and Christine strolled together down the street, her tiny hand up in the crook of his arm. People would pass by them in the opposite direction as they walked by, tipping their heads or nodding an assort of friendly gestures. Christine would smile back to each and every one of them and Erik attempted to do the same. The entire world seemed to him much friendlier that day than the one he'd remembered as a child or the one he'd seen as an adult the few times he'd gone out in the dead of night. Perhaps things were different now. Perhaps people were kinder. Sure there were still bad people in the world, Erik wasn't a fool, he knew that. But at least today fate seemed to favor him without a single unpleasantry. He was simply a normal man, going about his normal day with his significant other.

Tea was indeed wonderful. The cafe Christine took him to was quaint yet bustling, with many people there with either friends or family, all catching up on the news of the day. Christine seated them at a table at the edge of the patio so they wouldn't be in the middle of it all. They spoke enthusiastically to one another about the show, about Meg, and about what he'd been up while she'd been cooped down in his home. Everything about their afternoon was simple and without stress, such a new and refreshing concept to Erik. Every so often Christine would laugh at something he'd say, and he would get to see her eyes light up as she dazzled him with that perfect smile of her. When the waiter brought their tea and croissants, Erik had to mock her though.

"They're chocolate," he observed, picking one up. "That's hardly healthy."

"Goodness Erik, you are just _too_ fun sometimes, aren't you?" Her words dripped sarcasm. "Come on, live a little. Eat one. You'll like it, I promise."

Erik didn't make it a regular thing to indulge in sweets. Too much made one quite sickly. It was like alcohol, much better in small amounts. But the platter seemed to suit the mood, and so he took her words to heart and tasted one. He had to admit it was excellent. It had just the right amount of sweetness as the warm softness of it touched his tongue. He, as slyly as he could, reached for a second one as soon as he'd finished the first.

"Told you you would like it," she teased him with a smile, sipping her tea and eyeing him over the rim of her ceramic cup.

The two of them kept their conversations light and pleasant as the afternoon passed by lazily. Eventually though the cold metal of the chairs became less and less comfortable and, in silent agreement to leave, Erik paid the waiter and walked Christine out the gate. The walk back to the theatre wasn't too long, and Erik had one last thing to ask Christine before he returned to his office to complete a little more work for the day.

"Would you like to go out again tonight?" he inquired. "I never did get to take you out for your birthday and I still have that gift to give you."

He could tell Christine had forgotten all about their previous plans to celebrate her belated birthday, but her face lit up in response all the same as she smiled up at him.

"Where will we be going?" she asked.

"Nowhere fancy, just out and about," he told her vaguely with a wave of his hand. He could tell she wanted to ask further questions but instead played along.

"Well what am I to wear then?" she prompted. "If I don't know where we're going, that is?"

"Whatever you find lying about is good enough," he replied. "Really my dear, you'd look fantastic in anything so I wouldn't worry too much about it. I'm sure you'll find something."

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* * *

 **Hmmm...I wonder what Erik has up his sleeve? Other than chocolate of course because we all know he probably shoved a few croissants up there for later. haha.** **Remember to leave reviews as you go!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	19. Beneath a Moonless Sky

Beneath a Moonless Sky

1870

 _Christine_

Christine noticed that Erik had been very quick to dismiss himself when they'd returned home following their afternoon out. She'd also noted a look in his eyes right before he'd vanished that she knew meant he was up to something. Usually he would have walked her to her dorm after they spent time together, but today he seemed to need to get somewhere in a rush, leaving her just inside the lobby doors with a quick kiss goodbye. Granted, he had mentioned earlier that he had to go over some new scores with the orchestra, but for some reason that just didn't seem to warrant the sense of urgency he was putting across, which made Christine grow more and more curious as to where he planned on taking them that evening. Honestly, she couldn't even began to guess at this point. The way Erik's mind worked was so different and unpredictable from other people she knew. Not in a bad way of course. Just in a flustering one when she found she couldn't read him.

As Christine opened the door to her dorm her eyes immediately drifted to her bed, where a large, royal blue heap lay strewn across her sheets. With slight hesitance she closed the door behind herself and crossed the room, picking up the edge of the material with both hands to study it. It was a skirt and jacket, she realized after a moment of playing with the fabric, separating the two pieces from one another. The jacket, she noted, was wool. A much thicker material than any of her usual dresses, it was heavy and adorned with a double set of brass buttons to enclose its front. Christine pulled off her day dress and stood there in her underslip as she brought the jacket up over her shoulders and fastened it shut. It was extremely warm, like a homemade blanket, and it fit her body perfectly as if it had been customized solely for her usage.

"'Whatever is lying around'," she laughed to herself, seeing that a pair of black boots just her size had been placed at the foot of her bed. After pulling up the matching wool skirt she took the boots and laced them up, turning her ankle back and forth to appreciate the way the leather shone before she began to take small steps to test them out with. She found that while they were both sturdy and stylish they were indeed a bit difficult to walk in. Boots and ballet slippers were about as polar opposite footwear as one could get after all.

As seven o'clock closed in Christine left her dorm and began heading back towards the lobby of the opera house where Erik had said he would meet her. In passing on the way there, she noticed Meg and Mary spot her from across the grand hall. They immediately raced over to her with excited giggling. As they got closer Christine could have sworn she saw Mary practically salivating at the opportunity to get fresh gossip, whereas Meg looked truly sincere in her delight.

"Look at you, Christine. You look positively regal!" Meg gasped, trailing her hand along the fabric of the blue skirt. "Where on earth are you going, dressed like this?"

"Well riding of course!" Mary chipped in, saving Christine from having to say she had no idea. "That's a horseback rider's outfit. Christine, I didn't know you rode. My horse is back home with my family of course but one day we simply must go out together!"

Christine froze up with dread at Mary's words. Had she really gotten dressed to go riding? Erik must've known she had no idea how to...he'd known her since she was a child! What if she made a fool of herself?

"Nonsense. Christine has never been upon a horse a day in her life! Oh, what I'd pay to be there when you try," Meg jeered. "I must say though, I'm quite jealous. Erik really is spoiling you. Moonlight dates and fine clothing. You better not let him go. Most men aren't sweet like that."

"It's true," Mary agreed, flustered. "Garon's idea of sweet is taking me out to bars. He has no idea how to classically woo a woman! Thank God he's easy on the eyes or else he'd be a lost cause!"

Mary continued to despair over her relationship woes as Meg winked at Christine and urged her along, not wanting to interrupt her night out with idle drabble. Christine was grateful and nodded a thankful farewell.

As she descended down the staircase she could see Erik standing beside the baroque front doors of the opera house, a vision of nobility in his evening wear. He had added a fine, black wool tailcoat over his dress shirt from earlier. He also now wore a set of black leather gloves, very similar to the ones she knew him to wear to performances. His face withheld that of tender devotion as he held out a single hand for her to take. She placed hers atop his with a slight blush as he then led her out into the dark, crisp night. The first thing Christine noticed stepping outside was the blistering chill in the air. It was sharp as it stung at her cheeks, though thankfully her riding clothes kept the rest of her body warm. How odd it was to her that just hours earlier they had been out and about, warm in the sun, and yet now the night was kindly reminding them it was indeed wintertime as they made their way around the back of the building.

"Right over here," Erik spoke softly, gently squeezing her hand in his. Christine's heart skipped a beat at that tiny gesture, relishing the feeling of his fingers entwined with hers. It was sweet and simple, and as she spotted the tree line of the forest coming into view she almost felt as though they were young children, sneaking out past hours to play. Indeed Erik did seem almost like a child then, excited as they approached the opera house stables. Upon looking up at the stable building though Christine felt her smile at the moment falter. Her nerves became shot and she felt herself stiffen up hearing the soft neighing of horses only a few feet away from where she stood. Erik must have sensed her uneasiness, because he turned to give her a reassuring smile.

"There's really nothing scary about horses," he assured her with a laugh. "They have rather gentle dispositions. To be completely truthful I find humans much more unpleasant to work with."

Christine tried to take him at his word as she stared up at the building, whose wood had worn grey with age. Perched just on the edge of the woods, it was home to the six horses used for the company's work carriage. That carriage was utilized for a great many reasons. The managers used it for transportation to advertising galas, the artisans brought stone and fabric in with it, and the kitchen staff took it to market twice a week. The horses were strictly for business use only. Christine wasn't even sure they were allowed anywhere near them. If there were rules though Erik didn't seem to mind. He produced a large key from his pocket and unlocked the double doors confidently, swinging them wide open.

Entering the stable with a wary disposition, Christine noted an overwhelming scent as it hit her nose. It was pure animal, mixed with that of moistened hay and feed. It wasn't unpleasant, not in the least, but it was a very new scent that took a moment for her to get used to. The horses' dark heads could be seen above the closed stalls as they walked past them, and she found her fears did not diminish but instead worsened as she realized just how large horses were up close. They were truly enormous creatures, with black beady eyes and large mouths that could most certainly bite off one's hand without difficulty. Christine found herself again reaching for Erik as she feared for her fingertips.

When they'd passed three stalls on either side of the stable, Christine was surprised to see two additional stalls on the back wall of the building, both differently colored then first six had been. Whereas the first ones had been painted an ugly blueish white color, the two stalls ahead of them were that of a deep rusted red.

Christine had never seen more than six horses pulling the company carriage. She wondered if these horses were the same as the others, dark brown and ominous in appearance. Erik let go her hand and opened the first of the two stalls. It was then that the questions in her mind were silenced as a beautiful white horse stepped out slowly from the pen. Its hair shone almost silver in the dim light and it's well defined muscles told Christine it had gone great distances in its lifetime. The horse had already been saddled with a fine black leather riding seat, which told her Erik had already come out here once today before tonight. Erik reached into his pocket and fed the horse something small, then reach up to pat its shoulder.

"This is Caesar," Erik stated proudly, "I acquired him five years ago. He's a good companion animal. Very obedient, very patient. Come and say hello. He won't hurt you my dear, I promise."

Christine slowly approached the horse, anxious to see if it would make any sudden movements as she stepped closer to it. When it didn't she raised a single shaking hand and slid it down the horse's side. The fur of the beast was rough yet smooth under her fingers, and the horse made a tiny noise in response, neither happy nor angry, in acknowledgment of her touch. Christine grinned wide then as she simply rested her palm against its side, feeling the animal take deep, mighty breaths. It wasn't so terrifying to her after that, and Christine stayed close to its side admiring it as Erik moved behind her to unlock the second stall.

When Christine turned around he was leading a second horse out to stand beside his own. Christine looked over the beautiful animal with a gasp in awe at its magnificence. It was slightly smaller than Caesar, with the same snow white fur expect for parts of it that were covered with brownish auburn patches. Those patches, she noticed with a smile, were nearly the same shade at her own hair, if only slightly redder in tone. She watched with sheer delight as the animal shook it's long white and speckled face, causing it's dark hair to fly about in all directions before it relaxed and Erik closed the pen behind it. The horse's eyes were huge and soft and it's breathing calm and collected as it turned to look straight at Christine. It, like Caesar, was already saddled, though this horses' saddle was a light brown leather with gold painted accents swirled throughout the trim of it.

Erik reached into his pocket and offered Christine a pair of petite leather gloves, much like his own but daintier. Christine gratefully took them and pulled them on, feeling her fingers warming. The gloves, like her dress, fit perfectly. She then approached the second horse and, with much less fear now, stroked it's torso. The horse let out a happy noise in response and Christine could only giggle in response, feeling much like the young girl she never truly got to be.

"I think she likes me," she laughed, bringing her second hand up to pet the animal.

"I'd hope so. She's yours."

Christine stopped petting the horse and turned towards Erik with a surprised look. He simply shrugged his shoulders in response and slipped a pair of reigns first over Caesar's head and then over the second horse's.

"Mine...? Erik, she's so beautiful. I don't even know what to say...does she have a name?" Christine asked in wonder, stepping back to allow him to work.

"Not yet, that's up to you," he told her, handing her the reigns.

Christine took the leather rope in her hand nervously. Erik then stood beside Caesar and began guiding him towards the entrance. Christine followed suit, surprised at how well her horse obeyed her guidance. Then again, she figured Erik had already trained it because as soon as they were out of the stables it trotted slightly faster than she could walk, stopping to stand shoulder to shoulder next to Caesar.

"Put your foot here, grab here and here, and pull yourself up," Erik instructed, coming up behind her and guiding her hands up to the saddle points. Christine heaved herself upwards, her foot wobbling in the stirrup as she strained to bring her leg up and over the horse with her heavy skirt. Erik pressed up on her lower thigh to balance her shaking body. Her eyes went wide as she held the horn of the saddle tightly with wide and frightful eyes, staring down at how high she was off the ground. Erik simply smiled and handed her the reigns with one hand, the other still resting on her leg.

"You're a lot more balanced then you're letting yourself think," he reassured, "lean back and try to relax a little."

She did so, letting herself focus solely on her posture as Erik smoothly mounted Caesar with a single fluid movement, looking back at her with a dashing smile.

"Now try doing that in a skirt," Christine teased.

"I'd much rather not," Erik stated with a horrified look, "I look positively dreadful in woman's clothing."

Christine rolled her eyes but found herself smiling as Erik and Caesar pulled out in front to take lead of their ride. Gratefully, Christine found she didn't have to do much other than focus on her balance as her horse followed Erik's step for step at a comfortable pace. They rode together deep into the woods in comfortable silence for a short while, not saying a single word between them as they both took in the beauty of the forest that surrounded and entranced both their spirits.

The trees themselves seemed to be full of life as the sounds of the night met Christine's ears like a soft foreign song. Crickets and birds chirped in harmony and the now gentler breeze whistled through the branches above them. Somewhere in the distance Christine realized she could hear the sounds of the Seine rushing along. After a few minutes the path they traveled on widened up and Erik pulled his reigns to the left, shifting Caesar over on the path so that Christine's horse could pull forward and they could ride side by side.

By his side now Christine observed Erik ride, noticing how proper his form was in comparison to hers. Riding seemed a very natural thing for him. One of his hands rested lightly on his thigh while the other held his reigns firmly, his eyes affixed on the path ahead. He looked authoritative and defined, handsome in a ruggedly proper way that made her smile sheepishly as she looked over him with appreciation. After a moment he noticed her staring and turned to her with an inquisitive look, to which she blushed and turned away from.

"I have to ask, do we have a destination?" she inquired to change the subject.

"Just up ahead actually," Erik confirmed.

Erik and Caesar pulled out in front. They rode a few more meters and stopped. Christine watched Erik dismount his horse, tying the reigns loosely to a nearby tree. He then turned and gestured to Christine's horse, who stepped forward and lowered her head for him. When she was tied up as well he helped Christine dismount who, with embarrassment, nearly toppled Erik to the ground as she all but fell off on top of him.

"Graceful," he commented with a perfectly straight face. She slapped his shoulder, sensing the sarcasm in his voice and feeling her face turn pink in horror as she straightened herself up.

Erik led Christine by the hand to a small path off the trail. The woods grew darker around her and she found herself pressing more and more into Erik's side as the unknown territory began to swallow them up. The darkness only lasted a moment or two though before the path opened up into a small clearing. Christine's eyes watered and she covered her mouth with her hand free hand in amazement at what lay before her there.

The clearing had a dark blue and gold Persian blanket spread across its floor, with two large pillows at the head of it. A small wooden table had been placed in the corner of the clearing with a wine bottle, two glasses, and small assortment of bread and fruit atop it. Various candles were placed around the setting on small stones, looking like fireflies aglow in the darkness. It was almost too perfect a scene to disturb. Christine leaned into Erik's shoulder tenderly.

"Erik, this is amazing," she breathed, crossing to sit upon one of the pillows as she unlaced her boots.

Erik joined her and poured a glass of wine. He handed her the glass and she took a small sip, feeling her face scrunch up in response.

"That's quite an odd taste," she remarked, feeling the drink slide dryly over her tongue and warm the back of her throat. "Bitter, yet almost sweet."

"That's wine for you. Just remember to drink it slowly." Erik laughed as he poured himself a glass. "We do have to ride out of here tonight."

Christine took that advice to heart, taking only sips of her drink as they conversed. As the night grew on they casually found themselves laying down, staring up at the night sky side by side. Thousands of stars glittered before Christine's eyes, each one twinkling like crystals, with only a few stray wispy clouds drifting by every now and again. There was no moon tonight, she noticed at once point with curiosity, which she remarked upon. Erik took a moment then to explain moon cycles to her, as well as to point out common constellations while he was at it. She found herself leaning into him as he spoke with enthusiasm about all he knew, her head coming to rest in the crook of his shoulder, her cheek laid gently on his chest. She could feel his body moving as he spoke, and could hear his heartbeat as it fluttered in her ear.

"It's astonishing to me how many people can go through their lives without realizing the true beauty in this world," he told her softly, staring up longingly into the sky. "Music, the stars, the night...most people seem to rush through life without ever truly appreciating any of it."

Christine could hear the despair in Erik's voice. He truly did see the world as a beautiful canvas for art, and she knew it honestly pained him to know that in such a beautiful world there was pain and suffering where there should only be compassion and creation. But even in a world so cruel he could always see into the beauty beneath it all. She'd seen that in him a thousand times over. From the way he spoke so passionately about the things he loved, to the tender way he held her, to the masterpieces of music he created. He was a beautiful soul, pure and whole, with so much to offer a world that had once scorned him. All because of something he had no control over. She reached up and gently lifted the corner of his mask. She felt Erik tense up beneath her and immediately raise a hand to catch hers. She had expected that reaction though, and caught his hand with her free one.

"It can't be comfortable," she whispered, sliding the barrier off his face. From where she lay she couldn't see the disfigurement that lay beneath, though she doubted he could tell because he neither relaxed nor seemed to breathe as she tossed the mask to the side. After what seemed like an eternity she finally heard him let out a single sigh, though he still not dared to look at her.

"Erik," she spoke tenderly, "I want you to be yourself around me. Please...you don't need to hide your face from me. I've seen it before."

He took a moment to register this before slowly turning his head to face her. When he did she saw that same look of dread and shame that he'd had the first time she'd looked upon him. She couldn't stand to see him bearing a look of such sullenness. That look and the demons she knew he carried with it had no place being in his heart tonight. Not while they were together. She wasn't about to let them ruin the beautiful night he had worked so hard to create for the two of them. She reached out and softly caressed his mangled check.

"Much better," she whispered as she stroked the rough skin beneath her thumb.

In a mix of slight intoxication from the wine and the mood of the setting around them Christine suddenly found herself very forward with her emotions as she leaned her body into his, capturing his lips with her own as she slipped her hand behind his neck and twisted her fingers lightly in his hair. Whatever he'd been feeling in that moment disappeared then, and she felt him instantly respond to her with a great urgency as he swiftly slid her body underneath his with a single fluid movement.

Erik paused only a moment to shrug off his coat and toss it aside before reclaiming her lips with his. She felt herself quivering with desire as his hands began to roam overtop for clothing. She could feel his palm running down her side with a tight grip before traveling gently over the length of her skirt. At the hem of her skirt she suddenly felt cold air hitting her legs as he ran his hand up to her thigh with a maddening slowness. As he was doing this his kisses trailed down her neck, into her collarbone, and finally down to the tops of her cleavage. He paused there, to Christine's greatest frustration, and looked up at her, as if asking permission. She was moving then, fumbling at the buttons of the tight jacket, craving his touch in places she'd never dreamed of being touched. All senses of propriety were beyond her then. There was no place for her in society. There was only a place where she could stay by Erik's side in this perfect state of sensual bliss.

He took over for her, releasing her skirt as he made quick work of her buttons with a blazing determination in his eyes. As her jacket fell open, Christine could feel the brisk night air hitting her body through her cream colored slip, the thin fabric shiny in the starlight. She glanced up to see Erik trailing his hands down her sides, staring down at her body as if it were a lake in a desert. He very carefully lifted the bottom of her slip to uncover her abdomen. He then kissed the length of her stomach upwards, the sensation sending a shiver up Christine's spine as she arched her back in response. When he pulled her slip up to her collarbone, revealing her breasts, she could have sworn she's heard an audible gasp from him. Years later she would still tease him about the effect she'd had on him in that moment, but in present time she found she could barely collect her thoughts as he massaged one of her breasts in his hand and bent down to kiss her sternum lightly before ravaging each of her nipples in his mouth.

She found her hands on his chest as he teased her body, her fingers nervously but excitedly undoing the buttons of his navy skirt and pushing the fabric up and off his shoulders. She moved her hands over his chest, his sides, his shoulders, relishing in the feeling of his warm skin and feeling his lean muscles move as he did. As her hands slid down his back she could feel numerous scars crisscrossed into his skin. In another, much less heated time she assumed he probably would've flinched at her touching them, back right now she could tell they were both too in ecstasy to speak of such horrors.

Christine found herself inadvertently arching her hips up into Erik's as he returned to kissing her collar, his one hand still massaging her left breast. She could feel inside of her a growing need too urgent to deny herself of. That feeling was only heightened as his hips shifted and she felt the part of him that craved her most pressing against her thigh. She bit her lip in anticipation as he once again reached down to the hem of her skirt and slowly began to lift it, devilishly only trailing the backs of his fingertips up her leg.

Her hands found the loops on the hips of his pants. She gripped them tightly, pulling his body closer to hers. Her eyes met his for a brief second and in desperation she found herself begging.

"Erik, please."

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* * *

 **I'm sorry if this chapter got a little too heated. Wait...no I'm not. You're reading fanfiction, which means you live for this stuff (you nasty little thing, you). But yea, going back a year later to do some editing I can't believe I ever even typed the word 'nipples', much less wrote an entire foreplay scene. *stuffs head in a sandbox* Who even allowed that?!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	20. Say No To This

Say No To This

1870

 _Erik_

There was no one else in the world in those moments. There was no poverty, no cruelty, and certainly no pain. There was simply Christine. Fair and beautiful and completely his. No matter how much he knew he shouldn't touch her in such a way, no matter how undeserving he felt of her, he couldn't stop himself as he explored more and more of her body. He was studying it, studying _her_ and the many different ways she reacted to his touches, committing to memory exactly what she seemed to enjoy most. Lust raged through him as he gazed down at her, her eyes wild like fire and her lips swollen. Faint pink marks trailed her neck and collar, and her chest heaved with breathlessness. He found himself staring at her, her body half exposed to him. Her narrow waist was pale and only seemed to extenuate the fullness of her small yet perfect breasts.

He kissed her again, rough and demanding. He could feel the part of him that ached for her and found himself pressing his hips down into hers in need. His right hand trailed down her skirt and lifted it slowly. He leaned back from her so he could see her tortured expression as he lightly trailed his fingertips up her leg. It felt smooth like silk before his fingers. He longed to touch her where he'd never even dreamed himself to touch a woman. But tonight he would. How could he not? She was biting her bottom lip and pressing her body up into his like she needed him the very same way she needed air to breathe! His eyes locked on Christine's for just a moment then.

"Erik, please," she whimpered.

Erik froze, hearing his angel beg out his name. The tone in her voice was so full of desperation as she spoke those two glorious words. The fact that she desired him...could such a thing really be true? Could she crave him just as badly as he did her? He knew very well that he was fully exposed to her, that it was his marred and mangled face she was looking into as she begged him to physically love her. However did she see past such a thing? Past the disgusting outer core of his flesh and into his soul? He'd never even been able to make eye contact with himself and yet Christine was looking straight up at him as if he were simply a normal man.

 _A woman and man. No more and yet no less._ That was what it felt like. And that was what he was, he realized. Just a man. A man entwined with a wonder of woman upon the forest floor on a cold winter's night. It would've been perfect, such bliss, if Erik hadn't glanced down at Christine's left hand, which had moved to grip his arm. That small hand, so perfect. Yet so sans ring.

Christine was pure and perfect, unlike many of her theatre peers. He knew she prided that about herself. Could he steal that innocence away from her? His eyes fell lustily down her body. Yes, he could, he confirmed. So easily. And it would be perfect. In that moment he would have no regrets to his actions. But he was sure that later he would, especially after having been the one to give her wine when he knew she had never drunken alcohol before. It was no wonder she was in the state she was in. He closed his eyes in frustration and begged to God. _Please show me how to say no this._ Give him eternal damnation, give him the curse set upon Prometheus - that he be chained to Caucasus for all of eternity, ripped apart day after day by vicious birds - anything but to pull away from his beloved and her pleading eyes.

Erik groaned something nearly inhuman as he heaved himself to the side onto his back. He didn't dare look at Christine as he buttoned up his shirt and lay there panting as he collected himself. He heard Christine rustle about to grab her jacket and listened to the buttons of it snapping shut. Then, of all the ludicrous things that could have followed such a disastrous moment, he heard Christine begin to _laugh_. He sat straight up in shock, turning towards her. What the devil could she be laughing at? Had he done something wrong? Horror struck through him and he felt all the color drain from his face as he tried to figure out how he could've displeased her. It was only when she leaned her forehead into his shoulder and hugged him tightly that he realized she was laughing at the situation, not at him directly.

"You're a better man then most," she said to him. He could hear the sweet smile in her voice and in that moment he knew that he had done the right thing. For that he was proud of himself.

"One day I might not have this kind of control," he couldn't help but tease, staring down at her left ring finger with pondering thoughts. "You are quite the little siren, you know. You may very well be my demise one day."

She laughed and reached for his coat, handing it over to him. He took it as she began to lace her boots.

"Or your salvation," she said in a sultry voice with a wink as she stood up and offered him her hands.

 _Salvation. If only she knew._

He placed one of his hands in hers, knowing she couldn't possibly lift him from the ground on her own. He then pushed himself upwards with his free hand, letting her guide him. As he stood up he pulled her close to him, gentler now. He held her and kissed the top of her head, turning to rest his good cheek upon her hair. He found himself smiling such a pure smile as his gaze met that of the stars, thinking how envious those faraway sparkles must be having to look down and see the beauty of his Christine standing before them.

Erik decided that he would return later in the morning to gather everything he'd brought to the woods. Right now his main priority was to get Christine to bed so she could get some proper rest. They pulled on their gloves and Erik placed his mask back over his face, noticing the action receiving a disdained look from Christine that he still, after everything that had just happened, shook off as a hopeful imagination on his part. He helped her mount her horse back on the trail and together they made their way back up the path to the opera house.

Erik couldn't stop himself from watching Christine, much more confident this time, as she rode. She looked radiant upon the horse he'd given her, like a queen out on her nightly ride. Her curls drifted slightly behind her in the breeze and her cheeks blushed a lovely shade of pink every time she caught his gaze the rest of the night. Eventually, she spoke, her voice soft as she ran one hand down the mane of her horse.

"I still can't think of a good name for her. I'm terrible at this sort of thing. I'd never be able to name a child," she jested.

"Well, names are a tricky thing," Erik confirmed. "Caesar was already named when I took possession of him, so I didn't have to worry about that sort of thing."

"I love the flecks of red in her hair, the way they shimmer through the brown. Perhaps a name that suits that aspect of her would be most appropriate," she pondered.

"Then why not...Leroux?" Erik suggested. "The name is of French origin, which is fitting. It means red-haired one, though it is usually only used for men or as a surname. I don't think the horse would mind though."

"La-roooo." Christine tested the name out in exaggeration, pronouncing it as an American would. She turned to him and beamed. "I love it!"

* * *

Erik wondered back into the night after walking Christine to her dorm and kissing her goodnight (what a tease that chaste kiss on the lips was after the night they'd had). He rode Leroux through the trees, getting the horse used to riding without a lead in front of it, and quickly cleaned up the mess they'd left behind. When he descended into his lair afterwards he'd found himself seated at his piano, the blanket they'd rested upon draped over his shoulders, Christine's sweet scent inspiring him as he scribbled notes onto parchment for an instrumental piece. As he tested out the keys to the tune in his head he found himself humming with sweet bliss. Tonight had been the epitome of his very existence. His Christine had made the night more perfect than even he could have ever written. He stood up and poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle they'd opened earlier that evening, relishing in the sweet and bitter taste that brought back fond memories of just hours ago. Her kisses had tasted of this wine, adding to the sheer seductiveness that was her. He didn't think she'd truly realized how much she had captivated him in that luminous starlight. He hadn't lied when he'd told her she was a siren. If he were a sailor no doubt he'd be long dead by now, driven to a sharp and rocky end by her voice and beauty.

He recalled the way he'd felt his stomach sink, staring at the empty space on Christine's left hand earlier. No matter how much he yearned for his Christine physically, there was one thing he wanted even more. He wanted her to be his wife. Silly perhaps, for a man his age to value marriage over sex, but for him it was something he'd once never dreamt possible. Sex was something he could've gotten years ago had he been willing to pay for it. Enough money and a French whore would do anything for a man, including wear a blindfold the entire time the act was performed. He'd been tempted to hire one once, back when he was a mere man of twenty-two. He'd even stood outside a brothel downtown one night, cash in pocket and sweat upon his brow, telling himself to move his ass and get it over with. Back then he'd been driven by the maddening curiosity of it all. He wanted to learn why in novels and operas did men kill and be killed for and because of sexual relations? He'd wanted to experience the reason himself, at least once. But in the end he couldn't bring himself to do it. He hadn't felt himself worthy of touching any woman, even a prostitute.

But things were different now that Erik was blessed with a woman who wholeheartedly loved him. Now there were all sorts of possibilities for his future. Marriage, a family, and a whole new start at life. He wanted it all, and only with Christine. He found himself drifting about, wondering how to go about something as big as a proposal. It was then that he saw two unopened letters sitting on his desk, which he assumed Adelaide had left for him while he'd been out. The first was from M. Firmin, proposing the idea of a three night charity opera before the end of year masquerade ball. Erik decided work could wait until tomorrow and tossed that letter aside, picking up the one from his dear adopted sister instead.

 _Little brother,_ it started. Erik scoffed. He was a hair over six feet tall and Adelaide was a mere five foot, four inches. He was hardly _little_. The note stated she wanted to take tea with him sometime before the show tomorrow to go over some new ideas. He could make time for that, yes. But first he had an errand to run in town. He settled down at his desk and started sketching ideas. When he finally came up with a finished product he held it up in satisfaction to study. The metalwork was intricate but delicate, with three stones and simple filigree edging. He'd been careful to make sure the design wasn't too over the top. He had the money for over the top, yes, but he didn't want Christine to think him obnoxious. No, a small ring was be best. After all, her hands were tiny.

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* * *

 **Everything is going so well. Where's the drama?! Don't worry little ones, it's coming. Stay tuned...**

 **xoxo**

 **Nicole**


	21. Season's End

Season's End

1870

 _Erik_

The final show of Hannibal was only moments from beginning. Erik stood proudly by the door to the theater, waiting for his guests while watching the citizens of Paris pour in to fill their seats. After a moment he spotted a stunned George Larson walking through the double doors. The American slowly took off his hat and let out a long whistle as he glanced around the grand lobby, clearly stunned by the grandeur put into a gala finale. The white marble floor had been freshly polished wall to wall and the main doors to the theatre had been lined with golden candles and fine ivy. The finest of French society socialized while servers handed out champagne and a cellist played softly in the corner by the staircase. The opera house resembled nothing of the dark empty building George had seen the other day on late night business, and Erik could tell the doctor was impressed by the transformation.

A woman appeared behind George, smiling and taking hold of the crook of his arm with wide, shinning eyes. Mrs. Larson was a tall and curvy woman, with hair that bounced in long golden waves over her shoulders and a sweet smile that made her appear much younger then Erik assumed she was. Her stomach was very prominent through the tight green dress she wore, and Erik recalled after a moment of confusion that she was pregnant. From the looks of it probably at least six months or so. Two small girls stood right behind her heels, holding hands with one another. The older of the two had fiery auburn hair like her father, and had a spark of wonder in her eyes as she looked about. The younger was blonde like her mother, with small freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks. She seemed overwhelmed, but not in the way the rest of her family did. She instead looked like she might become ill from sensory overload. The noise of hundreds of people in one building seemed to cause her to shrink back into herself as she nervously stepped in closer to her sister's side.

Erik saw George spot him and raise a hand in greeting. Erik dipped his head in response, not being one for making large gestures across such a far space as Americans often did. George guided his family over towards him and Erik shook hands with the good gentleman before turning towards the doctor's wife to introduce himself.

"Mr. Destler, this is truly magnificent place," she beamed, "Thank you kindly for the invitation. The girls and I have never been anywhere like this."

"It's my pleasure, madame Larson," Erik replied.

"Anna-Beth," she corrected him, "Actually, Annie would be even better. That's what our friends all call me. Anna-Beth is a mouthful. Oh, and these two young ladies are our daughters."

Annie gestured to the two girls by her side, who were whispering amongst themselves. They immediately ceased talking when they saw they were being directed to speak and the auburn girl stepped forward and curtsied to him in a way he was sure she must've practiced all the time.

"Angelica Larson, mister," she said in a very mature voice. She turned to the blonde. "This here is my sister, Eliza. She's not much of a talker but she wants you to know she thinks this opera house is the most beautiful place she's ever seen."

Eliza blushed bright red as Erik looked down at her, turning her face into the side of her mother's skirt and burying it in the fabric. The gesture made both her parents laugh.

"Unfortunately, the show was sold out when I made my initial offer George," Erik explained, "But no matter, we will all be able to share my box. If you'll follow me."

Erik led his guests up the staircase to the second floor of the theatre. Each box seat had its own private entrance. Erik's remained locked at all times, for he usually kept booklets of his notes on performances inside. He pulled out a key from the pocket of his overcoat to open it. The extra chairs he'd requested had been brought up the night before, his usual one now on the far right side of the box. Annie and George took a seat in the farthest two left chairs, leaving the children between them. As one of the stagehands went around and began to lower the the lanterns Erik watched as Annie leaned her head against George's shoulder lovingly. His arm went around her and he whispered something that made her giggle with embarrassment. Erik admired the Larsons as a couple. Their family was beautiful and they seemed truly happy with the lives they led, which wasn't something one saw too often.

"Mr. Destler, Eliza can't see over the railing," Angelica whispered harshly to him, leaning across her sisters lap to tug on his jacket.

Erik looked down at his side, where Eliza was staring down at her feet, which didn't even reach the floor. She was such a small thing, like Christine had once been when she was younger. Not wanting to ruin the moment the young girl's parents were sharing by asking them what to do, Erik simply picked up the child and set her on his knee. He noticed a slight smile on her face, though she didn't turn to face him.

"Thanks you, Mr. Destler," she said, barely an audible sound.

"No problem, little one," he replied as the last of the house lanterns dimmed and the orchestra started to play. The music swelled up as the first act dancers came on stage, moving in near perfect synchronization with one another. Meg Giry led the act, raising her arms in the direction of Garon's grand entrance and introduction as Hannibal himself. As the opening number continued, he saw from the corner of his eye as Angelica stood up, looking positively mesmerized. She rested both her arms over one another on the railing with her chin on top, not moving another inch the rest of the song. The dancing seemed to consume the young girl, much to Erik's delight as he mused how much his sister would love to teach someone so obviously enamored with her art form.

Before Hannibal set off to fight in the war with Rome, he sorrowfully sang a farewell letter to his wife, Elissa. Christine emerged afterwards in her stunning white gown to once again enchant the theater with her beautiful rendition of the aria, _Think of Me_. As she sang she gazed up longingly into the direction of his box. Though she couldn't see him through the stage lights he knew she always sang this song directly to him, which made him glow inside each and every time. There was a passionate gentleness in her voice as she raised her arms and vocalized the impressive ending notes to the piece. It had been days now since Erik had heard her sing, and he found himself once again not being able to tear his eyes away from her as her voice rose to crescendo for the final note, which almost brought tears to his eyes as it always did.

When the song concluded, the audience roared with applause and, to Erik's horror, whistling. He shuddered at the fact that some men were probably thinking of his Christine in less then appropriate ways, instead of appreciating the perfection of her voice, but he got over the fact quickly. His beloved was beautiful and talented. There would always be admirers, including he himself.

To Erik's surprise, Eliza began to clap along with the crowd. It was the first time she had moved during the entire show. In fact, he had almost forgotten she was sitting with him. She hardly weighed anything, after all. He leaned to the right to look down at her. The young girl was looking at Christine with such a bright smile on her face as she enthusiastically began to cheer aloud. Her parents noticed her whooping and turned to look at her with surprise as the curtains closed on Act I. When Eliza realized she was being stared at she shut down immediately, again turning to look down at her feet, where she tapped her toes together innocently.

"Sweetheart, did you like that song?" her father asked with a laugh. Eliza didn't say a word but nodded her head.

"The song was lovely but did you _see_ the ballerinas?" Angelica proclaimed, turning and taking her mother's hand, using it to hold herself steady as she spun around. "They were amazing! Absolutely breathtaking!"

George looked at Erik then, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. Erik knew he was referring as to whether of not Erik had really meant it when he'd said he could put in a word for his daughter to join the ballet. Erik nearly laughed. His sister was the ballet mistress. Of course Angelica would have a spot if he asked her for one. She trusted his judgement well enough.

"Guaranteed," he told his friend with a nod, watching the man smile in delight as he turned towards his excitable daughter. Angelica and her parents began to talk about ballet as a serious matter and whether or not Angelica would want to pursue it. Erik watched as the young girl jumped up and down happily, throwing her arms around her father's neck and squealing. The shriek made Erik flinch, but smile none the less. He looked down at Eliza, who was fiddling with her hands.

"What about you, Eliza?" he whispered, "Do you want to be a ballerina too?"

The little girl on his lap turned to him and shook her head no with an almost disgusted look on her face. Erik was slightly disappointed but figured the night was still a victory, as one of the Larson children seemed to share in his joy for the arts. He had no doubt Angelica would grow to be a wonderful dancer, with how much energy and enthusiasm she had. He wondered what Eliza would grow to be like. A housewife, like her mother? She was quiet and blonde, and Erik knew those were desirable traits that most men sought after. Eliza answered his question though, sounding nervous as she spoke.

"I 'd rather be a singer," she said quietly, looking up at him, "like Elissa."

Erik felt almost honored hearing the young girl's words. Christine was, after all, his great musical prodigy. Her voice was the peerless instrument he had trained hours on end for many dedicated years. Where the illustrious soprano had once found inspiration in him, she herself had now inspired another. He couldn't be more proud of his beloved.

"Would you like to meet her after the show?" Erik asked Eliza gently, watching her face light up in response to his offer.

"I could meet Elissa?" she nearly fell out of his lap as she clapped her hands together in excitement. Erik balanced her with his arms.

"Her name is Christine actually, and she's a very nice person. I'm sure she'd love to meet you."

Eliza nodded with a happy grin as the music started back up and Act II began. By the time in was over, it was nearing nine in the evening. The audience gave a standing ovation and the managers stepped forward to give a closing speech, announcing the upcoming charity performances of Il Muto and the New Years' Masquerade Ball. The stagehands raced around the theatre then, turning up the lanterns so the audience could see their ways out. Annie and George stood up, Annie giving George a quick kiss on his cheek.

"This was so wonderful, dear," she told him, "I can't remember the last time we went out like this."

She turned towards Erik and nodded. "Mr. Destler, the opera was wonderful and I must say, your fiancee's talent is unmatched!"

Erik felt his gut sink, hating to keep up the lie about his engagement but not wanting to let his new friends know he hadn't been honest with the doctor previously.

"That has yet to be announced, actually," he told them smoothly, "and we'd like to keep that way until we decide how to go about the announcement."

George winked at him. "Ah, very good. Don't worry, old sport. We won't say a word. Come along girls."

Angelica stood up and took her mother's hand. Eliza, however, didn't leave Erik's side. She simply stayed quiet, reaching her tiny hand to grab the side of his palm. He was indeed very surprised by the gesture and couldn't help but look down at her in puzzlement.

"I've never seen her warm up like this to anyone other than us," Annie laughed, "but it looks like you've made quite a friend in her."

Eliza nodded her head in firm agreement. "Mr. Destler is going to introduce me to Elissa."

" _Christine_ ," he corrected her, looking back up at George, "If that's alright with you."

George nodded. "I'll go and bring the carriage 'round. I'm sure both all three of them would love to meet Miss Daae in the meantime."

* * *

 _Christine_

There are a few things Christine had never associated with Erik before. This one had to be near the top of the list. She was standing backstage gushing with Meg over the ending of their first big show together when she'd noticed him slipping through the backstage curtain. She'd wanted to run to him and kiss him with all the excitement that flowed through her, but stopped when she noticed a small child by his side, holding his hand in a nervously tight grip.

"Erik, I never figured you one for liking children," Meg giggled, walking over and squatting down to eye level with the small blonde girl. "Who are you, little one?"

The child turned away from Meg and hid her face in Erik's pant leg. He looked shocked at first by the girl's action, then he leaned down and placed a hand of her back, reassuring her as he looked up at Christine.

"This is Eliza," he told them both, "Dr. Larson's daughter. She wanted to come and meet you. Says she wants to be a singer one day, just like you."

Christine felt herself blush, overwhelmed at the thought that her singing could inspire such a shy child. Meg stood up as the girl's very pregnant mother pushed through the curtain, followed by another child. The woman's name was Annie, Christine learned after a quick introduction.

"Angelica here is going to be joining the youth corps, Meg," Erik proclaimed proudly, introducing the second child as if she were his own daughter, "Perhaps she'd like to go with you a moment and meet the rest of the dancers...?"

Angelica's eyes went wide and Meg's eyes lit up in just the same fashion. She took the little girl by the hand and the two of them disappeared around the corner, Meg's dressing gown flowing behind her as they went.

Erik and Annie began to joke about Angelica taking over the entire troupe, but Christine barely noticed them. Her eyes were on Eliza as the little girl slowly looked up from Erik's side and released her grip on his leg, walking timidly over to stand at the hem of Christine's gown. Her small round face was beautifully accented by large blue eyes, tiny freckles sprinkling her cheeks like stardust. Her blonde hair was a curly mess, just like Christine's had been when she was little.

"Hello there," Christine said kindly, bending over as much as she could in her massive skirt, "my name is Christine. How did you like the show?"

Eliza smiled sweetly, holding her hands behind her back and twisting as she spoke. "It was very good. You were the best though. I'm going to learn to sing like you some day."

Christine touched her fingertip to Eliza's nose, making the child giggle. "Well, I'd love to sing with you sometime. Would you like that?"

Eliza nodded enthusiastically before letting out a large, sleepy yawn. Christine smiled, assuming it was well past the child's bedtime. Her mother noticed her child growing weary and picked her up, letting her rest her head over her shoulder. Christine was impressed by how easily the pregnant woman balanced the child on her hip. Christine hadn't met many pregnant women personally before, but she'd seen them in town from time to time struggling to carry even the smallest of parcels. Annie called out to Angelica, who came back around the corner laughing and smiling as she twirled a bright blue ribbon in the air. Christine noticed it to be a shorter version of the ones Meg used to practice with when they were younger. As Angelica spun it around herself in a flawless circle Christine knew Meg was going to have quite the prodigy in her some day.

"It was wonderful to meet you," Annie said to Christine with a polite nod, "I hope one of these days we can get together, just us girls."

"I'd love that Annie," she said, saying goodbye to the girls as Dr. Larson came to get them. The doctor gave Christine a polite nod, and she replied just the same. She found she didn't have anything to say to him though. After all, it was odd to try and see Dr. Larson as anything other than the doctor who had come to her aide that dreadful night. She was almost embarrassed actually, looking at him and knowing he had seen her nearly half-naked during her examination.

Yet if he were to be Erik's friend, he would Christine's friend as well, and she would simply push aside her self-conscious thoughts. After all, the man was a professional. He most likely didn't even remember her with all the patients he saw. Plus, it was nice to see Erik making friends outside the business and Christine had to admit she was delighted by the doctor's musically inclined children, especially when she saw Eliza reach up and take Erik's hand as they walked. The little girl proceed to ask him questions regarding the theatre and Erik patiently and enthusiastically answered every question she had, smiling down at her the entire time.

Something inside Christine warmed with delight at seeing the way Eliza and Erik interacted. Erik had never mentioned to her whether or not he liked the idea of children, but she supposed she had an answer to that now. As she walked back to her dressing room she pondered what he would be like one day as a father to his own children. He would be protective no doubt, especially if he had daughters. He would make an excellent parent though, she realized. After all, he loved to teach and children loved to learn. She could picture himself at his piano, laughing and cringing as a small child in his lap happily banged on the keys. There would be adoration in his eyes for such a child. Adoration and such pride.

Christine blushed as she realized she was daydreaming of Erik as a father. Why, they weren't even married yet, and here she was-

 _Married_. As the thought crossed Christine's mind she giggled, losing her train of thought as she turned the knob of her dressing room door and stepped inside. She wondered when he would ask her to marry him. It was obvious things were heading in that direction, yet he hadn't given her the slightest idea as to when to expect it. She was both extremely nervous and excited for that day to arrive. Erik was a very clever man, no doubt he would ask her when she least expected it. She expected it would be a simple and sweet surprise, as their little date in the woods had been. She unlaced her skirt and corset and pulled over her plain blue day dress, smoothing out the fabric as it fell to her ankles. She reached up to start taking the pins out of her hair when she paused, a smile playing on her lips. She decided she would wait and let Erik help her with the pins, since this was the last time she would ever wear them.

A knock sounded at the door, and Christine eagerly turned on her vanity bench, expecting Erik's smiling face to grace her presence. Her face fell though when she realized the man walking through the door to be the arrogant blonde thorn in her side that had once barged in before. He stepped in and closed the door behind himself, a dashing smile spread across his face and a bouquet of white lilies in his hands.

"They matched your dress," he remarked, setting the flowers down near the many others displays before meeting her eyes. "Ah, I know that look. Disappointment. Excuse me for not being monsieur Destler. I presume that's who you were waiting on."

"As a matter of fact yes, Raoul," she stated, standing up so he couldn't talk down to her, "so if you don't mind, I'm going to kindly ask you to leave. As I've stated before, I have no interest in your courtship and it isn't proper for you to be inside my personal dressing room."

She stepped past him to open the door. As she did though, he walked straight past her, chuckling and running a hand down her costume skirt that hung over the spare chair. The sight of him touching her skirt, even with it not on her, made her nauseous, for she knew what he was thinking even without him saying it aloud. His eyes told stories of the the fantasies playing through his mind.

"I just don't understand, Lotte. What has Destler got that I don't?" he asked.

He took a step towards her nightstand, opening the top drawer and rummaging through it with disinterest as he spoke. In the second drawer of that vanity where the ribbons from the roses Erik left her. She felt her face flush hot with protectiveness over the small pieces of satin as he closed the first drawer and reached for the second knob. Annoyance flared up inside Christine. Who gave the viscount the right to rummage through her dressing room as if it were no more than his own bedroom?

"Well, for one he's a gentleman," Christine sneered, reaching past Raoul to hold the second drawer shut. Raoul looked down at her with a dubious smile. He took her wrist in a tight grip and walked her backwards towards the wall.

"What _are_ you insinuating, mademoiselle?" He spoke in a low and sultry voice. "That I am not one? That I wouldn't be gentle with you?"

All the bravery in Christine melted away at she felt the small of her back pressing farther and farther into the plaster of the wall. She thought of a thousand and one snarky replies to tell at him, yet her tongue was dry in her mouth as he took a step closer into her. A dreadful feeling began to creep up inside her as images of Buquet flashed through her mind. Raoul's eyes held the same darkened look the stagehand's had that night. She wanted to scream, to shove him away, but couldn't. Instead she felt her eyes swelling with tears as she stood paralyzed in fear as he continued to speak.

"That's what I thought," he stated firmly, "You've got nothing to say. So why don't you just admit your feelings for me then, Christine? I know you've got them. Somewhere in that pretty little head of yours, you picture me when you kiss Destler. You wish it were my hands on you instead of his."

Christine felt a single tear stream down her cheek as she held her breath and shut her eyes, turning away. She felt Raoul's hand fall to her waist and squeeze it tightly. Then she felt nothing. The weight of Raoul disappeared completely. She heard him let out a yelp of surprise and opened her eyes to see that he had been thrown into the opposite wall by a very furious Erik, who now stood menacingly in front of her as he faced him. Christine took a much needed breath as she slid down the wall and let herself cry. She knew she should've been stronger in that moment, but she couldn't be. The way Raoul had held her. She just kept picturing again and again Buquet's hot breath on her neck as her head collided with the floor. The disgusting way his hands had trailed over her body and pinned her down. She whimpered and put her head between her knees, trying to shake the images from her vision.

She faintly heard the door to her dressing room burst open as Mme. Giry and M. Firmin stepped inside. She forced her head up to see the Madame giving her a look of motherly concern as the woman rushed to her aide.

"What the hell is going on in here?" M. Firmin inquired angrily as he watched viscount struggle to collect himself and stand. Christine saw Erik turn to M. Firmin and grab the lapel of his jacket roughly, pointing with his other hand towards Raoul.

"This piece of shit happened!" Erik yelled, "He had Christine pinned to the damn wall when I walked in!"

"This man is a liar!" the viscount proclaimed as he straightened his jacket, "I would never do such a thing! I simply came in here to congratulate Christine on her performance and found her like this. Destler here just can't stand the thought of any other man besides himself consoling her."

Christine clenched her fists by her side tightly, anger coursing through her. She would not sit by helplessly and listen to Raoul's filthy lies, especially directed towards the man she loved. She rose to her feet and crossed over to him, stopping just a meter away. She then struck him across his face as hard as she could, the sound echoing throughout the dressing room's now eerie silence.

"Get out of my sight," she sneered darkly.

"Why you little viper-" He didn't get to finish his sentence as Erik and M. Firmin took either side of his arms, pushing him towards the door. Raoul snaked out of their grasp, straightening his collar with a smirk as he met Christine's gaze from the doorway.

"Until next time then, little Lotte. And there _will_ be a next time, have no doubt of that."

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* * *

 **Pssttt...this is a great place to leave a review! Just saying!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	22. Comfort

Comfort

1870

 _Erik_

Erik didn't say a word as he took the pins out from Christine's hair and set them on the vanity. He simply stared down at the mirror, trying to read his beloved's face. He could tell she was deeply troubled by what had just happened. She kept smoothing her skirt out, a stress related habit of hers, he noticed. He couldn't believe the blinding fury that had coursed through him walking in on them the way he had. He'd seen Christine trembling, her hands flat against the wall and her eyes closed, streaming with tears. He'd also seen Changy, smiling like the devil he was, his filthy hand on Christine's delicate waist. How dare scum like he touch her! Hadn't she suffered enough at the hands of Buquet! Raoul's filthy actions had obviously brought back those terrifying memories to her, as he saw that far off look in her eyes that she'd had after that fateful night not so long ago reflected in her face now.

"I feel as though you're the only man in this world I can trust," she finally whispered, not meeting his eyes as she hung her head.

Erik didn't know what to say, so instead he simply pulled the last pin from her hair and let it fall to the table as he knelt down beside her and wrapped his arms around her tightly. She seemed so small in his embrace as he held her. So much like a scared child. He hated to see her like this. Tonight had been perfect for her and now it was ruined.

"I'll make sure they don't ever let him come back here," he whispered to her in promise, tilting her chin up so he could see her face. He wiped the tears from underneath her sad, brown eyes. How he hated to see such sadness in her eyes. He much preferred the wild glimmer that shone in them when she laughed.

"Thank you," she told him sweetly, raising up her hand to hold the unmasked side of his face. "You're a good man, Erik."

Was he though? He thought of his gypsy keeper, who had died at his hands when he was still just a child. He thought of all his years as the phantom, terrorizing innocent stagehands and ballerinas simply because he was bitter with the world. He then thought of his life after Christine. Of the way he'd spent over an hour yesterday with the pianist he hated so much, working on scales with him and conducting him in a civilized and patient manner. Of the Larsons and their daughters, and how much he'd cherished his time spent with them tonight.

"If I am a good man, it is only because you have made me one," Erik said softly.

He kissed Christine then. Gently, knowing the night she'd just been through. She sighed against his lips contently, which sent a thrill up his spine as she turned to deepen the kiss. After a moment she pulled away from him with a smile on her sad face and he saw that wondrous wild light flickering back in her eyes. He kissed her again then, determined to make her forget all her troubles and worries and feel only the comfort of his touch. It worked, but too late did he realize he was pulling her too closely to himself. She lost her balance and toppled off the bench, falling atop him and knocking them both to the floor. Erik couldn't help but feel joyful as they lay there, laughing at one another's disheveled disposition.

* * *

 _Christine_

The rehearsals for Il Muto started a week later, following a short audition span. Only Christine and one other chorus girl, named Natalie, had auditioned for the lead. Natalie had actually been surprising good, and had been awarded with lead understudy. Christine herself had been given the role of Countess, where she continued on as prima dona of the opera house. To her utter delight, Meg had been given the role of the pageboy she would be having her staged affair with in the play. The two girls rolled with laughter on the floor that evening, failing to seriously pantomime faux kisses behind a fan. They only ceased their antics when Mme. Giry's cane came thundering down on the hardwood, silencing them both. Christine had looked up then to see both Erik and the Madame glaring down at them, both dressed in matching black outfits and both looking drained.

"It's so creepy how much Erik and my mother could be related," Meg whispered, trying to stifle a giggle, "just look at the two of them. _So_ _serious_."

"Ladies, may I remind you, you are professionals. Il Muto is a comedy, and while I'm glad you both understand that concept please, do try and focus," Erik pleaded.

His voice was so distant and full of authority as he turned to instruct the orchestra to start from the top of the scene. Christine tried to stay focused for his sake, not wanting to make his job any more difficult than it had to be. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he made eye contact with a violinist and motioned with his hand for the man to correct his posture. The violinist instantly shot up, and Erik smiled in satisfaction before moving to the side of the stage to talk with Garon about his entrance to the scene. Christine loved watching him work, watching him make notes in his head when he glanced up towards the ceiling before speaking. She could tell he loved this job wholeheartedly and that he was putting everything he had into this show. For that, she would try and take the role more seriously.

When the rehearsal ended Christine, Meg, and the rest of the girls made their way backstage. Meg sighed, taking off the pants of her costume and slipping back into her day dress with a look of disgust. Christine laughed at Meg's newfound love for men's pants. The idea was silly but perhaps for Meg's birthday Christine could try to find her a pair of ladies' pants, if such a thing existed. Then again, the Madame would probably never allow Meg to wear them outside the theatre.

"I must say, I do enjoy being your lover," Meg teased her with a wink. "It must be driving Destler crazy knowing we might elope at any moment now."

"Now Meg, no matter how strongly we feel for one another, we mustn't," Christine jested as she untied the over-skirt of her costume. "Erik needs me for this show."

Christine heard a snort from across the room as Natalie walked by and set her wig on the head mannequin in front of her. The woman seemed disgruntled towards them, though they hadn't done anything to provoke her that Christine was aware of.

"Need some water?" Meg shot dryly across the room, giving her a glare.

"Why, so I don't strain my voice?" Natalie replied coyly, "Why would I even worry about something like that? It's not like they need me to sing, not with Daae here sleeping her way into roles." She sauntered towards them. "Say Christine...is Destler even any good, or do you just lay there and take it?"

"Natalie!" Meg shouted, appalled. "I hardly think that was appropriate! Apologize now!"

Christine saw some of the other dancers slink off into the dark, not wanting to get involved. She tried to stay collected even though she was fuming red at the chorus girl's suggestion. To think that she would ever do such vile things for her work! She was no whore. She was an artist and her father had raised her better than that. Unlike Natalie's father, who apparently had raised her with the mouth of a sailor.

"Let Christine defend herself!" Natalie stated. "Unless I'm right and she is a slut. Am I right, dear Christine? Are you Destler's little slut?"

Christine clenched her fist by her side. She was about to start shouting when she saw Mme. Giry appear behind Natalie, her figure dark and looming. Her face was furious and as Natalie turned around and spotted her glaring she shrunk down to about half her size.

"Quite a forked tongue you speak in," the Madame noted with obvious distaste.

Natalie went to speak but didn't get a single word out as Mme. Giry thumped her cane on the floor, causing the chorus girl to flinch back.

"I will not tolerate this sort of behavior from my dancers," she stated simply, 'You should know that." She sighed. "You will gather your things and be gone, tonight miss Duprey. No arguments."

"No! Madame please! Allow my to explain-!" Natalie started in desperation.

"Go now." The Madame would hear none of it.

Natalie ran off towards the the direction of the dorms, breaking down and crying into her hands. Christine felt as though a rock were dropping in her stomach as she watched her go. She heard Meg faintly protest but didn't quite catch what she said as she ran off towards the very same woman who'd insulted her good name. She found the woman's dorm six doors down from her own, with the door wide open and Natalie there on her knees, crying into her mattress. When she noticed Christine standing in the doorway she turned bright red with fury, reaching over to toss her pillow towards at her. After it bounced sadly off the doorframe Christine took a step inside, shutting the door behind her.

"Are you quite done?" she asked flatly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Natalie heaved herself up onto her bed, putting her forehead into her hand as she sighed.

"Will you please just get out of here, Daae?" she pleaded. "Honestly...you can't take any more from me so just go."

"Any more from you?" Christine was flabbergasted. "Natalie, I hardly even know you. I mean, we've danced together for years now but we've never even spoken to one another before today."

Natalie was quiet a long time, staring down at her feet. When she finally looked up at Christine her expression was a weary one, as if she hadn't slept in days. Her eyes were red from crying and the lines on her face ran deep with exhaustion. Christine walked over to her side and sat on the bed next to her, sensing that she was finally ready to have an adult conversation.

"I'm thirty-one," the chorus girl finally said quietly, looking away from Christine. "Thirty-one years old. I've done nothing else but dance for this company my entire life. I've turned down suitors and I've lost connections with family alike, all to try and be the best I can be for this damned place."

Christine didn't know what to say in response to that, so she simply chose to listen instead.

"I practice every day, on my own after hours. I try and sing the best I can. I thought when Carlotta stormed out I would finally get my chance to be somebody. I had finally gathered the courage to step forward when Mme. Giry went and pulled you out in front of everyone. I'd hoped you would mess up. I'd prayed for it as I watched you. But you sang so beautifully...and I knew I would be stuck in the chorus ever more."

Natalie stood up then and slowly began to pace with frustration.

"But you - you're so young! I always kept up the hope that prima dona would be too much for you to handle, especially after you were attacked. I thought you'd want to leave this place as soon as Hannibal ended. That's why I chose to do the Il Muto audition in the first place! Because I knew I wouldn't have stuck around if I were you. I hadn't even known you were auditioning that same day. I was backstage talking with Mary when you went on. That's when she began to gossip about your relationship with monsieur Destler. And as soon as she told me of the two of you I know I would never again have a chance at a leading role so long as you were around. And now look what's become of me!" She sobbed loudly. "I'm fired! I have no job and they're going to toss me out into the streets. And what of me then? I have no money, no husband, and barely any family that cares for me! However will I get by? Will I have to beg? Steal? Become some dirty, lowlife-!"

Natalie stopped pacing and sighed, looking down at Christine with guilt clouding her eyes.

"Become a whore?" Christine offered up the word quietly. "A slut?"

Natalie fell to her knees in front of Christine. "I'm so sorry, Christine. I never should have said what I did! I was jealous is all! You're brilliant, really. Please...you have to help me."

Christine felt her face soften in defeat. Natalie sounded sincere. Sincere and quite terribly desperate.

"Please," she pleaded, "tell me you'll speak with the Madame and monsieur Destler on my behalf. Let them know I will never act out again. Please. This is all I have."

Christine looked down at the woman, feeling sorry for her. Against her better judgement she found herself nodding. She felt the collision as Natalie jumped up and wrapped her arms around her neck, almost too tightly.

"Thank you Christine! Oh, bless and thank you! You really are a saint!" she cried.

And so Natalie got to keep her job, on probation of good behavior. The managers made it clear though that they didn't want a single complaint about her from anyone ever again. Meg and Erik had both lectured Christine about keeping someone so snakelike in the company but she had eventually talked the both of them down, telling them what Natalie had told her. Meg had clearly not been impressed with Natalie's sob story, faking a yawn as Christine explained her reasoning. Erik had been even less understandable, having taken more personal offense to Natalie's earlier accusations regarding the two of them.

"I don't like keeping someone like that around," he'd grumbled to her, "To have someone suggest that our relationship has _anything_ to do with the position you have worked so hard to earn...why, it infuriates me Christine."

"I can see that," Christine had laughed, "But don't you have more important things to do than listen to ballerinas' gossip, _monsieur Director_?"

Christine had seen Erik realize he'd lost that battle with her. He had dismissed himself to go yell at a stagehand, which from where Christine had stood seemed to help him with his stress. Christine and Meg were now making their way towards the corner cafe, forgetting Natalie and laughing as they discussed different ways Meg could portray her character, since her role was a silent one. After all, one couldn't exactly have a woman's voice speaking when the character was meant to be male. So actions would be everything. They were sitting at a table near the front of the cafe when Meg had suggested over-acting her bows with her entire body, leaning forward and bringing her arm up behind herself outlandishly as an example. When she did so, she accidentally knocked the tray of a passing server upwards, sending the hot tea it held down the front of the man's vest. The man cursed something foul, dropping the tray to the ground as he pulled his steaming clothing out and away from his body.

Meg stood up and nearly tripped over her chair, trying to help however she could. The entire scene would have been hilarious had the man not still been swearing in obvious pain. Eventually Meg walked him into the cafe, guiltily holding his tray by her side and looking over her shoulder at Christine with a desperate look. Christine couldn't offer any advice to her other than a reassuring smile as they disappeared inside. Christine could hear someone yelling as the door closed behind them.

She looked down at the broken teacups that had fallen to the cobblestone. Shards of porcelain were strewn about every which way. She stood up and bent down to pick up the larger pieces. One of the edges cut into her finger slightly, and Christine watched as a single drop of blood fell to the ground as she let out a hiss. A waitress was dragging her up then, pressing a towel into her hand.

"Please madame, allow me," the young woman insisted.

Christine cringed at the word madame coming from the waitress's lips. They were most likely the same age, and hardly different social standings. Theatre singers, ballet rats, waiters, they were all the same to the upper class at the end of the day.

"Come on, let's get out of here," a very embarrassed Meg said as she reappeared, grabbing her hand from behind. Christine watched her toss a handful of francs down onto the table as they excited the cafe in a rush.

"Oh Christine, I've never been so humiliated in all my life!" Meg groaned as they made their way up the steps of the opera house. "I feel so bad...that poor man!"

"You could always go back and apologize," Christine suggested.

"Or we could find a new place to take tea?" Meg offered up weakly.

Christine gave her a pointed look.

"Fine. I'll apologize," Meg agreed halfheartedly, "...tomorrow."

Christine rolled her eyes, putting her arm around her best friend's shoulder in comfort as they made their way through the doors.

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* * *

 **I would love to see the dressing room scene with Erik and Christine here brought to life in a drawing with the quote: "If I am a good man, it is only because you have made me one." Anyone up for the challenge? I wish so much that I could draw it myself but alas, I cannot. I see such beautiful art in my head but when I try to put in down on paper my hand fumbles about like a dog trying to walk in high heels.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	23. The Ballerina and the Server

Interlude: The Ballerina and the Server

1870

 _Meg_

Meg had done some pretty embarrassing things in her short life. She couldn't lie, most of these things were due to her being an absolute clutz. Even though she was a near perfect ballerina on stage she was a mess in everyday life. During one of the Hannibal rehearsals she had tripped over a prop and knocked four other dancers to the ground backstage. Ands a child, she'd snuck into the kitchen of the opera house for a late-night snack and had accidentally caused a small fire (don't ask her how). Countless other times Meg could recall being clumsy and screwing things up, though she'd never hurt anyone before because of it. That is, until yesterday.

Oh, how terrible she felt for that! That poor man had simply been trying to do his job and Meg had been the cause of him being burned! How could she even make up for something like that? Meg ran her hands over the top of her head, pulling at her long blonde hair in frustration as she walked through the lobby. She took a deep breath and pulled open the doors to the opera house, stepping outside. The weather today was much colder than yesterday's, she noticed, with angry grey clouds in the sky that threatened snowfall. The air bit at her cheeks as she pulled her jacket tighter around her waist and wondered the best way to go about the apology she owed the man. Perhaps it was proper to bring a gift? Men brought flowers to women when they screwed up. But what could she, a woman, give to a man she knew nothing about?

Meg settled on the idea of sweets, walking two blocks down to the bakery, since as it was in her personal belief that everyone on God's green earth loved baked goods. The elderly woman behind the counter, to her greatest horror, laughed at Meg's tale when she told it and even called her husband from the back to share in her embarrassment as well. Meg's cheeks were bright red as the woman then asked nonchalantly what type of goods she wanted packaged up. That's when Meg froze in confliction. Baked goods had seemed like such a simple idea before she'd been prompted with that question, but now in the back of her mind she worried that the man might have allergies she knew nothing about. What if he thought she was trying to kill him, first by fire and then by suffocation of an anaphylactic sort!

 _Oh hush, Meg,_ she thought, silencing her own ridiculous thoughts. She ordered one dozen regular chocolate biscottis and paid the still smirking women before quickly exiting the facility. By now she was dreadfully anxious to get this whole apology thing over with so she could get back to the opera house and climb underneath her warm and welcoming blankets.

The outdoor seating of the cafe wasn't busy in the least with the coming weather, and there were only a few servers on staff it seemed. Meg clutched the warm package in her left hand tightly, stepping onto the patio just slightly so that she could casually peer inside the window of the establishment to the small seating area inside. As she turned and made awkward eye contact with a female server though she realized she wasn't being stealthy in the least. So, pride out for anyone to stomp on, Meg confidentially lifted her chin and strolled over to the door of the cafe, pushing it open.

Inside was slightly busier. The grey and blue striped walls were simple and inviting and the bistro sets were black metal, matching the ones outside. Servers walked in and out from behind the bar with trays and she paused to watch the door swing open and shut, trying to spot the man from yesterday. Knowing Meg's luck, she had probably been the last straw for the poor guy. When she's walked him inside he had immediately stormed into the back kitchen without a single glance back at her. She'd turned heel and run for Christine then, too embarrassed to stay another minute. Dammit, why had Christine insisted she come back? Her friend could have at least offered to come with her as backup in case the fellow was still mad. But Meg knew Christine couldn't have come with her today even if she'd wanted to. She had rehearsal all day today for scene eight of Il Muto, which the pageboy wasn't a part of. No, today it would just be Christine, Garon, and Erik working together. At this very moment, Meg presumed Erik was probably lecturing Christine on her posture while simultaneously smacking Garon over the head for making his rather common lewd commentary in her direction.

Meg still didn't know what to think of Erik Destler. He and Christine were an odd couple to her. Erik had been Christine's teacher innocently for years, according to the soprano, and it wasn't until he'd applied to be director that they'd started seeing each other. While Meg assumed there was more depth to their backstory, she'd chosen not to pry. She was simply glad Erik made her sister (even if Christine wasn't technically related to her she would always think of her as such) happy. Meg had noticed though that Erik did treat her more harshly in their rehearsal then she assumed he probably meant to.

She supposed he had to though, to show he wasn't playing favorites, especially following Natalie's accusations. At one point, it had almost gotten humorous to watch them interact. Erik had scolded her the other day and Christine had chosen to flat-out yell at him in return. Meg assumed their make-up/make-out sessions was worth all the bickering though. She'd caught a glimpse of them that very evening backstage during their break and Christine had been wrapped up in his arms, Erik whispering sweet nothings in her ear while she giggled and stole a kiss in return, thinking no one else could see them in the dark.

Meg thought once or twice about mentioning to Christine that their public their displays of affection were nauseating to watch, but even if she said something she doubted her sister would hear her. Or maybe she would and simply wouldn't care. A part of Meg thought she was too much in love to see anything other than Erik lately, and he was just as bad. He seemed still just as smitten as he'd first been when she'd watched him walking towards Christine's dressing room that first night, a single red rose and his heart in his hands just for her. Meg guiltily had to smile thinking of the way Erik looked at Christine. Even if he was a terror to work with he was still the kind of man most woman could only dream of...kind, sweet, talented and handsome to boot! So long as he kept that scared face of his hidden beneath his mask.

Perhaps if a man were as sweet to her as Erik was to Christine Meg could deal with him having disfigured face. Then again, she probably couldn't. It would honestly depend on how bad it is. Meg certainly didn't want to wake up each morning screaming, thinking her husband to be a monster come to attack her. How mortifying would that be? No, her sister was certainly a better match for such a man, she decided. For the kindness in Christine's heart knew no bounds. She was simply too pure and good for the world around her. Meg had seen that in her time and time again, especially yesterday when she'd practically _begged_ their mother not to fire Natalie, after the woman had been a downright terror to her.

Not wanting to look awkward, Meg spotted the last empty table in the corner of the cafe and sat there, placing her parcel on the chair to her right. She bit her lip nervously and looked down at the table, studying the filigree design there. She then decided when a server appeared to take her order she would simply give the gift to whomever that would be and tell them to hand it over to the man themselves. After a moment, she saw two black shoes appear through the table in front of her.

As she looked up she began to blush wildly, not expecting her server to in fact be _him_. Yet there he stood before her, his hand on his waist as he gave her a kind smile that she had to admit was actually pretty adorable. Meg noticed that the server was quite an attractive man in general, with mousy brown hair and dancing green eyes. He couldn't have been more then three or fours years her senior, with the boyish charm he carried about himself.

"Come to finish me off?" he jested with a laugh, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

Meg's blush deepened, and she wished like hell Christine were with her. Normally she would have cracked a smart remark back at the man but as it stood, she simply couldn't think of anything witty to say...and that was a first. What on earth was wrong with her? She stammered a bit, feeling flustered. The man just continued to smile at her, almost sweetly now.

"While you think of something to say, I'll bring you some tea," the man decided, taking a step away from her, "Regular black alright with you?"

Meg made a face, thinking of the horribly bland flavor that was plain black tea. That was something her mother or Erik would drink. A boring drink you signed documents with or drank before shooting yourself in the face. No, black tea was most certainly _not_ alright. The man could tell his joke had not been funny, and held his hands up in defense.

"Something more flavorful then," he decided.

Meg watched the man walk away, very aware that she was staring at his hindquarters as he went. She casually chewed her lip and brought her hair around the right side of her face, trying to be nonchalant in case anyone had seen her staring. She would have to be smoother when he returned. Less awkward for sure. After all she wasn't a little girl - she could speak to men just fine. She knew plenty of them! Alright, not plenty, she admitted to herself. In fact she only personally knew the managers, Garon, the gay choir dancers, and Erik. Goodness, maybe she needed to get out more.

The man came back a moment later, sans apron and holding a blue teacup. Without the apron she had to admit he was rather dashing in frame. Grey pants and simple white button down made him look laid back and comfortable, much more comfortable indeed than Meg felt in that moment as he proceeded to sit himself beside her and set the teacup between them.

"I told them I was taking a break," he explained as he leaned back in his chair. "So where's your friend today? Don't you usually come here with Miss Daae?"

Meg nearly snorted. Of course the man recognized Christine. Who didn't, with the poster of her from Hannibal hung outside the opera house for all to see? She reached over and took the teacup he'd brought for her and sipped it, nodding. The tea was sweet, she realized, though she couldn't name the flavor. She sipped it again. Christine could probably name it. Christine was a secret paramour for the world of sweets.

"Do you like that flavor?" he asked honestly, "I came up with it. Apples, strawberries, hibiscus, and lemongrass."

Meg nodded again. _Speak, dammit!_

"Do I get to know your name?" he inquired, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his hands folded underneath his chin.

"It's Meg," she told him shyly, setting the teacup down. "Meg Giry."

"Ah, she speaks!" he proclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. Meg glanced around the cafe with hot cheeks, wondering if anyone had seen his outlandish proclamation. No one seemed to have noticed however.

"I'm so sorry, was that embarrassing?" he asked. "If it helps having to work all day in wet clothes is much worse."

"That was an accident!" Meg stated defensively, touching his arm with her hand. "That's why I came back today - to apologize!"

The man laughed quietly as he looked down to where Meg was touching his sleeve. She quickly withdrew her hand and tried to slyly bring it up to her hair.

"You know, you are the least subtle woman I have ever met, Meg Giry," he said plainly.

"And what does that mean?" She couldn't tell whether or not to find offense in his words.

"It means that you're very much...alive," was the word he decided to go with, "You make yourself known when you enter a room. I like that. But I mean, come on, if you fancy a fellow there are other ways to get his attention besides second degree burns."

Meg froze, not quite believing what she was hearing! How arrogant this self-centered man was! Here she was, frozen from walking to the cafe on such a cold day, coming here to apologize genuinely, and he thought she had burnt him _on purpose_? To flirt with him! She placed her hands on the table, intending to storm out, when the man placed his hand on top of hers. She found herself relaxing under his touch.

"I'm joking," he reassured her, "Relax. Drink your tea. To be honest, I had hoped you would still be here yesterday when I came back out, but Amelia said you'd run for it. I wasn't mad at you, you know. In fact after I got over the hot liquid part, I was elated. I've seen you coming here for years, your friend always by your side. I thought that our little incident could finally give me the chance to talk to you alone."

Meg was dumbfounded. "Why...why would you want to do that?" Her eyes dropped shyly down at their hands. He hadn't moved his from atop hers.

"Because, I think you're brilliant," he said, matter-of-factually. "That first time you walked through the door two years ago I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I though to myself: now there's an angel. An angel who has chosen to grace me with her presence."

Meg didn't know what to think in that moment. She simply stared into his beautiful green eyes as he spoke, getting lost in the evergreen color of them.

"I never had the guts to speak to you, or to even serve you. I simply watched you from afar, every time you came in. You may not realize it but you're always so animated. You're always smiling, or waving your arms about when you speak. I've never seen someone with so much passion for life as she speaks. And every time I would see you laugh I'd wished it was me telling you the story to cause that laughter. Every time you seemed depressed I'd wished it was me holding your hand in comfort, not Miss Daae."

Meg couldn't say a word in reply. How could she? She was too stunned to speak. She turned her hand over slightly underneath his and wrapped her fingers around his. She didn't even know this man's name, and yet the way he spoke to her was almost too beautiful to not be a dream. Where had he been all her life? _Right here apparently_ , she thought with guilt. She felt so bad, for she'd never even noticed him before yesterday. She'd always been too busy with Christine, being _animated_ , it would seem.

"Well..." she said after a moment, squeezing his hand slightly. She froze, feeling silly because she still hadn't asked for his name.

"Anthony," he supplied her. "Anthony Hope."

"That's very...English," she observed.

"London born, yes. But I was raised here. Me mum is French."

Meg giggled at the way he said 'mum'. He had a slight accent when he said it, and now she could tell his dialect was slightly off kilter when he spoke. Perhaps English was his first language and French his second?

"Meg, you were saying before..."

Had she been saying something? Oh, yes, she supposed she had been. What was it though?

"Um...we should get together sometime," she finally got out, not half as smooth as she would have liked.

"Anything in mind?" he asked.

"I don't know. Dinner. A walk. Whatever it is normal people do? I wouldn't know. I'm a ballerina and so I don't exactly get out much."

"A dancer? Really?" he seemed impressed. "Well, maybe I should take you dancing then."

"Can you dance?" she asked.

"I don't know, to be honest. I've never tried," he admitted, "but I'd like to dance with you."

His eyes were gentle as he spoke, and Meg tried not to show just how much he was captivating her with his smooth tongue and clever words.

"You know, there is ball coming up at the opera house and I haven't made plans to go with anyone yet."

"A ball?" He seemed to be growing nervous. "Come now Meg, I've just told you that I've never danced before and you suggest that my first time be in front of hundreds of people?"

"We could get together," she offered, "just you and I, sometime beforehand. I could teach you." She winked. "Private lesson."

Suddenly she felt much more like her usual self, confidence growing inside her.

"Looks like we've got a date, then," he said with a smile.

Meg looked down at their hands, still entwined on the table top.

"Looks like it," she said with a blush.

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* * *

 **FILLER! FILLER! FILLER! I'm sorry folks, I just HAD to write a Meg chapter. I love the dynamic of Meg and Anthony's relationship. He's one of my special, cinnamon roll OCs and I wanted to show him off. Did we like this little bonus chapter?**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	24. Someone Like You

Someone Like You

1870

 _Christine_

Erik was not the easiest man to work with professionally. He was a perfectionist. A brilliant, damned perfectionist who had to have every single detail of his show flawless and polished before it premiered. He'd already stopped Christine three times today, instructing her to start over from the beginning of the scene they were working on. She tried to remain patient as she again ran through the piece, but her patience could only stretch so far, for each time Erik stopped her he seemed to have something new to gripe about. Be it her posture, her breathing, the way she danced, or even her facial expressions themselves. By the time the rehearsal finally ended she was about ready to squeeze him until his eyes popped out. He didn't seem to notice her mood though as he came backstage and smirked at her as she took her wig off and set it on the table.

"No please, keep that on. It's dreadfully arousing, really," he teased, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Ha ha ha," she said flatly, her arms resting at her sides.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" he asked, oblivious as to how worn down she was by him that day.

"Nothing, my love," she replied, bringing her hands up over his and leaning back against his chest, "all is well."

Erik reached up and pulled her wig cap off, setting it on the table. He then proceeded to pull the six twisted pins from her hair. Christine watched as her curls cascaded down over her shoulders, free of the tight knot they'd been trapped in for the last six hours.

"You're a dreadful liar, Christine. You really are. Why even try with me?"

Christine sighed, turning to face him. There was a devious smile on his face as he played with her. He seemed to be in such a good mood, like he always was after running through rehearsals. She didn't want to take that away from him. But still, if he wanted to know she would tell him.

"It's just that you were a little exhausting during that run down, Erik," she explained, "I felt like every move I made today was wrong in your eyes. You pulled my entire performance apart piece by piece and then went about and dangled it in my face."

"Did I now?" Erik mused, fixing her hair to make it even. "It must be because of how much I hate comedy. Truly, I think your talents such as yours are wasted on shite operas such as Il Muto, pardon my choice of words. To be honest I'd much rather see you performing Hannibal again. You did that flawlessly."

"This show isn't that awful," Christine argued, "though it is a bit...ridiculous."

"Ridiculous it is, Christine," he agreed, "and yet you move about the stage as if you're in a drama. Your facial expressions are soft, when they should be exaggerated. Your smiles are sweet and charming, when they should be overblown. If I am being harsh with you it is only the tutor in me trying to help you become the best you can be. The transition from tragedy to comedy is a difficult one. I don't think in all our years of lessons we ever worked on a comedic piece of music together. I know I've never written any."

"Well, maybe if my teacher had taught me some comedic songs instead of having me sing loving ballads in his ear all the time..." she teased.

Christine gasped as Erik pulled her in close, his hand pressing the small of her back.

"My Christine, I can't even remember when it was you last sang a loving ballad for me and only me," he said wistfully, "though I can say it's been far too long. You haven't the faintest idea how much I miss the sound."

He kissed her quick, sighing at he rested his forehead to hers. She was smiling, trying to recall the last time they had had a private lesson together. He was right, it had been much too long. Christine sometimes missed those late evenings spent in the chapel. Those dark nights had been the very first spark to their relationship, the sweet and simple beginning to a now beautiful love.

"You know, we could always have another lesson if you think you still have more to teach me...a _ngel._ "

She watched Erik's eyes light up as he took a step back from her with a dashing smile.

"What are we waiting for then? Go on and get changed! Everyone is packing up for the night. You can meet by the piano in the orchestra pit in an hour," he declared.

She nodded her head. "With pleasure, maestro."

* * *

It was seven in the evening when Christine returned to the theatre. She had changed from her ridiculous costume into a very plain beige dress and had slipped on her worn in day slippers, much to the relief of her feet. She also had washed her face and fixed her hair, as well as stolen a spray of Meg's perfume from her dorm room. She made a mental note to buy herself perfume next time she was out with Meg. For now though, Meg's lightly floral and fruity scent would do just fine.

As she walked down center stage with a smile, she noticed Erik already seated at the grand piano in the pit. It seemed he had piled up mountains of sheet music across the table next to him, as if weeks without lessons had thrown him off and he wasn't sure what to go over with her. As it was though, he seemed to not have noticed her entrance. He was simply lost in his music, playing a song that sounded as though it was part of his original opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was slow and sensual, and Christine found herself stop halfway down the stage stairs in awe, listening to the beautiful song he played. She studied his face, so absorbed in the sounds of the piano, as if the instrument was a part of him. He played it as though it were an extension of his entire body and soul. He played with all the passion of the world, lost to the rhelm of mortal men, somewhere far away in another time.

As the song ended, his fingers stayed resting on the keys. He looked up and acknowledged Christine with a warm smile that made her heart dance. She crossed the room and stood behind him, bending over to wrap her arms around his waist.

"Are we to sing that tonight?" she whispered, referring to song he'd just finished playing.

Erik leaned back against her chest and sighed. "Not tonight, love. That piece isn't quite finished. In time though. But for now, I figured we could sing whatever it is you wish. You can see I brought up some sheet music." He gestured to the pile. "Whatever you'd like."

Christine smiled and stepped to the side, glancing over the many loose sheets and bound books of music. After a moment of digging a stand alone aria stood out to her, the pages worn and yellow like they hadn't been touched in years. _Someone Like You_ , was the title, though the name of the show it was in was smudged.

"What about this one?" Christine asked, holding up the poorly bound pages.

"Which one is that?" Erik asked, reaching for the sheet music. He flipped through it a moment and then laughed. "Ah, yes, this one. The show it's from was dreadful, only ever performed once here. It was abysmal to watch, really."

"The song seems so lovely though," Christine said dejectedly, wondering if she should keep looking through the piles.

"Many of the songs from this show were wonderful, have no doubt of that," he admitted almost sadly. "It was the cast itself that ruined the show. Why the woman who performed this song hardly put any heart into it at all. Perhaps we should honor it with your singing. Give it a taste of how it should have sounded."

"Excellent," Christine said, moving to stand to his left side as he began to play the song. It was slow and entrancing, not a note out of place as if Erik had played it hundreds of times before. Christine watched for her cue, sight reading the opening lines. For a moment she felt herself out of pace with Erik's playing, but finally fell into rhythm by the first bridge. Christine smiled at Erik, watching him try not to smile back as he played, attempting to remain professional. She couldn't help but continue to tease him though, leaning over the piano and looking at him with a sweet and loving gaze as she continued to sing.

"Posture, Christine," Erik instructed, barely hiding his smile now. Christine swiped the sheet music from his piano to read the next lyrics. To her surprise Erik didn't falter a single note as he continued to play. As Christine sang out the strong finale to the aria she turned to face box five, pretending she was indeed up on the stage and that this was a night with hundreds of people in the audience. After a moment she dropped the sheet music atop the piano and took Erik's hands in hers, drawing him up from the piano and pulling him in close to herself as she sang to him.

Erik smiled at her, a full smile of adoration as he stared down at her. Music was something Christine knew he took very seriously, so it was nice to see him relax and just enjoy the feeling of a song for once without watching him analyze every aspect of it.

She finished the last few high notes perfectly, much to his pleasure it seemed, as he drew her in and kissed her deeply. She leaned into him, lost in the pleasure of his lips on hers, causing him to brush against the piano keys, which made an awful disgruntled noise at being sat upon. Christine laughed and let go of one of Erik's hands then, turning her body towards the stage while tossing a curious look back at him.

"You know Erik,' she said slyly, "with all the times we've sung together, I don't believe we've ever danced together. Why is that?"

"Probably because I don't dance," he admitted without hesitation.

Christine was surprised to hear him, a master of all traits, admit that there was something he couldn't do. For someone who judged other's dancing so critically he certainly should know at least the basics.

"Well then, you'll just have to learn. Come on now," she took his hands in hers, "we're going to waltz and you're going to like it."

She dragged him up onto the empty stage. The entire theatre was abandoned and hundreds of empty seats met Christine's gaze as she looked out into that sea of red and gold. She put one hand on Erik's shoulder and the other on his back, and nodded at him to hold her in return. Erik seemed nervous, a new feeling Christine had never seen him portray so freely before. When it came to song and direction he was a confident and powerful force not to be reckoned with, a man who demanded perfection and nothing less. Dancing with a woman seemed to be his one true weakness though he gave her an awkward and confused look.

"There isn't any music," he stated, shifting back and forth uncomfortably. Christine couldn't help but laugh. Her poor maestro seemed as lost as a young boy would be. She started to vocalize a standard waltz in a soft voice as she nodded her head in time to the steps they should take. It was rough at first, watching Erik trip over himself, but within a few minutes he was catching on and even starting to lead them.

As his confidence in the motions grew his hand on her hip gripped her more firmly and he spun her around wildly in his arms. They stayed there a moment, her voice trailing off in slow, sweet sounds as he leaned into her and sighed contently. She could have stayed there forever in his arms. He held her tightly, yet tenderly all the same. There was no other place she loved being more. This was home for her.

"You caught on rather quickly," she complimented.

"I had to learn eventually, I suppose," he admitted with a sigh. "After all, otherwise I'd be quite the embarrassing date for you at the masquerade."

Christine leaned back and looked up at him with a laugh. "Erik, is that your way of asking me to the ball?"

He looked down at her and smiled. "Is that your way of saying yes?"

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	25. The Viscount

The Viscount

1870

Raoul

Raoul de Changy was proud to say that he belonged to one of the single most powerful families in all of France. He had more wealth than he knew what to do with, looks to kill, and a sense of style that made sure people knew just that the second they laid eyes on him. A man of merely twenty-three years, Raoul was already a well known socialite in the grand capital city of Paris. With his family name as his ticket to ride through life he had managed quite easily to finagle himself into many a gentlemens' wallets and ladies' beds alike over the years.

Perhaps it was due to his many year of unprecedented privileges that the sight of the Opera Populaire that night, looming over the outer ring of the city like a giant gargoyle in the sky, seemed to fill him with such stark bitterness. As he stared at it he couldn't help but recollect the stinging rejection Christine had thrown his way. Never before had a woman dared deny him. The very memory of her brash actions towards him left a bad taste in his mouth. Once again he felt the chilling ghost of her petite hand striking his cheek and saw the fury in her eyes as she'd dismissed him. The temptation to strike her back in return that night, to remind her of her rightful place in society, had been almost too great for him to hold back. Yet even as she spurred him he knew he could never bring himself to do such a thing to her. He cared for her far too much, in as much of a sentimental way as he found he could.

He turned his face from the building, trying to shake thoughts of the soprano from of his head. He was nothing to her now. She'd made that quite clear. No longer was he to be her knight in shining armor, no more the child who had raced into the winter sea after her scarf nor the one who'd placed blankets over her when she'd fall asleep in their hiding place in his father's attic. No, those memories meant nothing to her it now it seemed.

Raoul had tried very hard to continue to be a gentleman to her though, even after the stunt she had pulled. He had attempted to return the night after their misunderstanding to apologize to her. But when he arrived a man had stopped him from entering the building. He was positive the burly gentleman posted at the doors was Destler's doing, not Christine's, and demanded entrance due to his position as a patron. The man had simply laughed at him then, pulling a large bundle of cash from his coat and tossing it onto the pavement at their feet. Raoul was positive that bundle contained every last cent he had ever given to the establishment. To toss it back at him like he needed the charity was of the greatest insults he'd ever known. He'd spit upon the pile and left it there. He didn't care what happened to it. Monetary loss meant nothing to him, but his pride meant everything. He wouldn't allow that lowlife bodyguard to see him kneel. He knelt to no one. Took orders from no one.

Except Christine it seemed. She kept him at bay and kept him away, night after night. At first he'd thought her jesting with him. He'd thought she would come to her senses and realize that a decade later fate had brought him back into her life for a reason. But she just couldn't see it. She was too blinded by the facade of a life she had spent in the theatre. She had no idea of the real world around her, a world where you needed a strong and wealthy husband to provide for you, lest you end up in the street as soon as you outgrew your starlet days. He could offer her eternal comfort. No worries as to what the future may hold. He could give her the very world - it was in the palm of his hand! She just needed to reach out and take it.

He hasn't meant to lose his bearings in her dressing room. He hadn't meant to raise his voice but alas, he had. Destler had gotten under his skin - dared to lay a hand on him - and he couldn't just let that slide by without a rebuttal. Still though, perhaps he could've handed things better than he had. Perhaps he should have seen that he could not seduce Christine in the ways he usually did with women. He knew it probably would've been smarter to hold himself back. To just be there for her as a friend until she outgrew her infatuation with the director. But that wasn't who he was. He had and will always be forward in his wants and desires, and she was all he could think about. All he wanted. He'd been impatient and needed her to admit that there was something - that there was anything between them. That it wasn't all one-sided, a fantasy only in his mind. In doing so though he feared she now saw him as nothing more than a lustful monster.

The realization that Christine probably hated him now caused him to feel a great downheartedness. As the week progressed he'd begun to feel a bubbling depression brewing deep within, one that gnawed at him from the inside out more and more with each passing day. Raoul had never known depression before, but found it to be a dreadfully weary feeling. It made one feel quite exhausted indeed, and also made rest and ease difficult to attain. But to be told no was something he just wasn't familiar with. It baffled him. He was so used to getting everything his secret heart desired, simply by asking for it. He needn't even say please to most folk. He usually only had to snap his fingers and men and women alike would heel to his every whim. Yet Christine, dear sweet Christine, was immune to all he offered her. Immune to every last one of his charms. She seemed not to desire titles, nor wealth and fortune, nor a suitable man for marriage.

No, his childhood sweetheart would rather waste her time clinging onto that blasted composer Destler, a man who clearly wasn't worthy of a beautiful woman such as she. And what of Destler? Why him of all men? Raoul supposed he could be considered attractive yes, but any attractiveness a woman could see in him surely would be gone the second they saw that ghastly mask of his. Not to mention the fact that rumor had it he hid a disgusting scar from a burn underneath said mask. To even think of what such a face looked like left Raoul's imagination painting gruesomely awful pictures. He tried to shake the images of what he imagined but with sick curiosity he found he couldn't help but wonder what the devil himself looked like beneath that thin shield of his. The skin was probably black and red, charred and twisted something sinful. Had Christine, so fragile in heart, ever seen that true and most hideous face? Though the answer was most definitely yes with how close they two were Raoul still liked to think that maybe she hadn't, and that seeing it would cause her to flee, running straight into his rightful arms, the arms that were rightfully meant to hold her at night.

Raoul eventually found himself wandering into a bar. He wasn't much of a drinker but when life gave you the shit end of things he believed a man should at least he able to enjoy a shot or two to numb it all away. He'd learned that from his brother. He sat himself upon a stool, one that didn't quite seem balanced correctly, and flagged the barman. He ordered a whiskey, straight up. No need for it to be mixed with anything ridiculous. He wanted - no, needed - to be drunk as quickly as he could tonight. Needed the sweet sound of Christine's singing to stop echoing about in his skull like a bird in a cage. Needed the memory of her as a child clinging to his side to be erased. The bartender slid the drink over the counter and Raoul caught it expertly. He raised the glass in his hand, studying the amber liquid it contained with disinterest for a moment before tilting it back and finishing it with one vapid slam. He then set the glass down, a little harder then he'd meant to, as he felt the alcohol burn his throat and sink down into his stomach.

He wondered vaguely just how drunk he would have to get to stop picturing Christine in that white dress of hers. Oh, how that image replayed in his mind constantly. All the painted whores in Paris combined couldn't compete with Lotte's beauty in that white satin gown she'd adorned for _Hannibal_. That first night he'd gone to see the show she had stunned him silent, standing aglow under the stage lights like a flawless brunette angel. To see her in that white gown, so befitting her womanly body with its tight bodice and flowing skirt, had driven him mad with a burning desire night after night as he returned to gaze upon her.

Such a desire was purely carnal at first. But as the nights went on he found another simpler desire hidden underneath that one. An almost romantic notion as he'd realized the costume she wore to be so much like the ones the aristocrats of France wore for their weddings. One night while he was picturing himself unlacing her bodice he'd noticed that. It had been a startling change in mental stature for him. So suddenly his wondrous erotic fantasy of her had changed into that of her as blushing bride. His bride. It was in that moment that he'd decided to court her. For her beauty and soul were far more superior than that of any other lady he'd ever come to know, and he deserved the best of the best.

It was a shame, he thought, that she would never actually be married in such a gown with her current suitor. Raoul shuddered to think of the unimpressive tailoring a music man could afford for his Christine. Certainly she deserved tenfold whatever life he planned for them to have. Why, she deserved the luxurious life of a noblewoman. To gossip over tea with the other ladies of high society. To raise her children upon on many acres of a fine estate house in the countryside. Regal children. Not children of the industry. Heaven forbid she would produce beautiful children though, no matter whom with. Fine children that could've carried on the Changy legacy with beauty, grace, and dignity...

Damn it all. The world wasn't fair.

The bartender behind the counter seemed to notice Raoul's foul mood, for he leaned forward and poured another glass of whiskey for him. The viscount raised his eyebrows with disdain towards the middle-aged man. He hadn't come here for sympathy and he certainly didn't want it from a countermaid.

"Your lady giving you a rough time?" the man asked with a laugh.

What a snide question indeed. This man knew nothing of humiliation it seemed.

"To do that she'd have to be my lady," Raoul sneered, snatching the glass up and tilting back for the second time. "But _no_ , she'd rather have some theater scum on her arm than someone who could actually provide a decent life for her."

Raoul slid the glass back towards the bartender, almost too fast for the man to catch it. He fumbled and grabbed a hold of it only a second before it fell from the counter. The man seemed to get the hint then not to attempt to further their conversation. A figure three seats down from where Raoul sat could be heard perking up from his resting place, aroused by the commotion. Raoul barely tossed him a sideways glance in recognition. As he did though, he saw the man looking straight at him.

"You must be Raoul de Changy," the figure said, lifting his face higher into the light to show Raoul a smile devoid of a man's most important teeth.

Raoul nodded his head but wavered. "Should I know you, monsieur?"

"No, I suppose not. I don't run in your circles," the man stated. "Name's Buquet. Samuel Buquet. My brother used to work at the opera house you're talking about as a stagehand. He mentioned you once, just in passing conversation. Said you were the new patron there. I don't know if you ever got to meet him, but you might have heard he's in jail now. That bitch of a prima dona claimed he assaulted her." He sighed. "I can't afford his bail so he just sits in that cell, day after day, rotting away." He picked up his own glass and swirled it around, thinking long and hard. "Your name could help me out though. I've heard of the Changy family, you're well known all over Paris. You've got money, that I know, and what I've got is skills to offer. Handiwork, transactions of the lesser sort, you name it. Give me something I can help you with. Name your demand and I'll carry it out. Anything to get my poor younger brother a little air. He needs to breathe, he does."

Oh yes, Raoul had indeed heard about the stagehand that had attempted to rape his poor Christine. He presumed all of west Paris had heard that lovely bit of gossip by now. Why, Destler had barely left the man alive that night. Rumor was that there'd been more blood than face on the man after such a beating. Buquet deserved every single injury though. That was the one thing Raoul could agree with Destler on. He himself would sooner die then release such a greasy cockroach back into the world. If he ever happened upon such a man, he might not be able to control himself. He might just finish Destler's work and kill the man himself. Women were not meant to be taken in such a way. Animals took their mates in such a fashion. Real men didn't. If a man needed that kind of a rush to get off then by all means he could pay a service worker to be in the role of a victim. But one was not to force himself upon a lady unwilling. It just wasn't right. Or appealing for that matter. Raoul himself found sex far more satisfying when the other member of his party was fully engaged in the act.

Honestly, he could see nothing the Buquet family could offer him that would change his mind about granting such a favor. Unless...

"The artistic director at the opera house, monsieur Destler, did your brother know him?" he asked.

Samuel bit his thumb as he racked what Raoul could only assume to be a very small brain. He then shook his head.

"He spoke of him, yes. But he didn't know him personally. He was too afraid of that man. Said he covers the right side of his face, same as the alleged opera ghost myth. An odd coincidence, I think. For a masked man to appear and run a theatre a masked ghost once haunted. You could almost assume the two to be related, if you believe in such nonsensical poppycock. Still, I wouldn't go poking around in that man's business if I was you. He's dangerous. Joseph was near death when the police brought him to the hospital. Destler nearly killed him...probably would finish the job too, if given the chance."

Raoul pondered that a moment. Destler murder Buquet? The thought was ridiculous. In the moment the director had been pushed to such extreme actions. But that was in the past. Now the man was far too wrapped up in showering Christine with flashy music to plot revenge.

But maybe, just maybe, Destler didn't have to be the one to plot. Maybe he just had to be in the right place at the right time when the revenge occurred.

"You know what, I'll do it," Raoul stated, leaning across the bar to shake Samuel's hand with a forced but charming smile. "I'll give you the money for your brother's bail. If only to spite the world, I'll do it."

Samuel smiled brightly. "Good sir, many thanks indeed! You have no idea how grateful I am. Please though, what can I do for you in exchange?"

"Just be on standby," Raoul instructed, "when I need you I shall send for you."

Raoul drank the last of his third whiskey with a smile and dropped his owed tender onto the countertop. A simple idea in his head quickly began to weave itself into an elaborate plot as he stepped out into the dark morning. He took in a breath of fresh air and stuck his hands in his pockets, whistling a jovial tune as he made his way down the block.

Give him only a matter of days. Then he would have his Christine, who would learn to love him, given time. Not only that, but he would also put away that nuisance of a musician once and for all. No more pawns on the damned board. Raoul was and always would be the winner in life's game of chess.

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* * *

 **Well then, how did we like getting a Raoul chapter? I love writing from his point of view. He's a very educated and calculated thinker. But what does he have in store for our protagonists? Let's find out!**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	26. Her Father's Grave

Her Father's Grave

1870

 _Erik_

In Erik's opinion, the productions of _Il Muto_ had been nearly flawless. All three nights had fully sold out and the reviews that had been posted in the paper following opening night had praised both he and Christine in only the highest of lights. Following the final performance, the official invitations to the New Year's masquerade ball had been handed out en mass. Everyone had hung back late that night, gossiping about what costumes they would be wearing to such an extravagant celebration. Even Christine and Meg had been caught up in the buzz of the upcoming party, never before having attended such a grand ordeal.

Erik had been pleased with the way their enthusiasm turned out to work in his favor. There was a lot to prepare for before the day of the ball and he had worried Christine would feel ignored while he was busy completing the many tasks the managers had assigned him. As it was though, he found he could barely separate her from Meg in the following days, which gave him plenty of time to complete his professional tasks and polish his opera, as well as settle other, more personal affairs.

Today, Adelaide had taken both girls out dress shopping. This gave Erik the chance he'd needed to slip out of the opera house for the day without Christine wondering as to where he was going. He hated to hide anything from his beloved, but this was one thing for certain he knew he had to do on his own. One final hill to climb, as it were, both figuratively and literally.

His boots crunched the snow and ice beneath his feet as he reached forward to push upon the aging metal gate in front of him, which squeaked and let out a sharp metallic squeal as it swung open. As he stepped inside and looked around a chill shivered up his spine. He wasn't comfortable with being in such a haunting place, but felt as though this was a very necessary step in the days to come.

His eyes surveyed the plots and stones around him. He was unfamiliar with the layout of the city cemetery. It took him quite some time to find what he was looking for. When he finally stood before it though he found himself far less sure about why he'd come at all. Part of him felt ridiculous, the other part fearful of rejection, even though the notion of such a thing was an absurdity all of its own accord.

"I'm not sure how to go about this," he finally admitted, staring up into the grey sky as small flecks of snow gently drifted downward. "I never knew my own father."

The headstone before him was as quiet as the dead man who lay beneath it, it's smooth dark stone still as it listened to him speak.

"Christine was lucky to have you," he continued, "even though your time together was so short. You cannot even begin to fathom how much she truly loved you. Your death took a very heavy toll on her. She was so young and confused when it all happened. So very afraid and hurt. I witnessed it all firsthand, and it was I who was there for her after you...left."

Erik brushed off the thin layer of snow atop the grave marker with an absent flick of his wrist as he chose his next words carefully.

"Gustave...you promised Christine you would send her an angel when you died. And while I wasn't the angel she deserved I tried very hard to be the man she needed." He felt his eyes begin to water as he recollected. "You see, Christine came into my life like a wild fire. She was unexpected and everywhere all at once. She consumed me, every last part of me, completely and wholeheartedly. Everything I've done in my life for nearly a decade now has been solely for her. To make her happy and to let her know that she is loved. I don't know if you can see her now but she's grown into more perfect a woman than you or God Himself could have ever imagined. I thank you every day for sending her my way. I truly do. She's been my salvation. I was in a dark place before I met her and yet now I find my life filled with such bright light. Filled with her and her kind heart."

Erik paused once more, staring down at the inscription on the grave-marker. He noticed Gustave Daae had been around the same age he himself was now when he had died. So short a life, that seemed. It was eerie to think of.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," Erik told the stone warily, as if afraid it might bite him for daring to say such a thing, "on New Years Eve. I hope that I do so with your blessing. I wish you could be here to give it to us in person. I know it would mean the world to her. She speaks so highly of you, still, even to this day. She says you were the greatest father a girl could ask for. I can only hope, should she grace me with such a gift, that I can be the type of man you were to her to our own children one day."

The snow stopped falling in that moment, and a single ray of sunlight streamed down through the clouds. Erik nearly stopped breathing as the light touched his face. He half expected it to burn him, but instead he felt only a kind warmth upon his cheek. If ever there were to be a sign from an angel, he would assume that to be it. He looked down and smiled gently at the grave one last time before turning away, a new sense of confidence spreading through him.

"Thank you," he whispered to the surrounding winter air.

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	27. Masquerade

Masquerade

 _Erik_

1870

Erik adjusted his coat, turning sideways in the mirror to examine it. He felt that New Year's Eve had come upon him far more quickly than he'd originally anticipated. He'd had to rush certain plans of his in order for them to be ready for tonight, which had added an abundance of stress to the already draining week he'd just endured. He'd never imagined just how work went into planning the annual masquerade balls, only ever having been an opinionated ghost in the walls in previous years. Yet the budget alone had taken he and the mangers four days to file, and the staff had been an overall terror to work with, all equally exhausted and just as frustrated with the extended work hours.

His costume had honestly been the least of his worries. In fact, he had Adelaide to thank for getting it put together in time. He hadn't known when he would've worked on it otherwise. Christine had been unable to find anything in the town's shops to suit the theme she had chosen for them, and so she had decided to take on the task herself. She'd designed both their costumes, working the past three evenings with her seamstress on the project. She'd even helped to stitch her own corset, she'd told him, very proud of herself. Truly surprising of his angel, the woman had decided to go with a Poe theme for their costumes. His was a red tailcoat and pants, with black accents throughout and gold buttons lining the front. She'd also given him a skeletal mask to complete his look. He would be portraying the _Masque of the Red Death_ , a story he'd learned to be one of her grim favorites.

"Now _that's_ what a scary face looks like!" she'd jested when he'd first opened the package.

He hadn't seen Christine's dress yet, but she's said it was similar in color, only reversed to be black with red lace, her mask acting as the golden accent piece in her outfit. He was sure she would look stunning in it. The woman looked stunning in everything she wore. Even the ridiculous costumes for _Il Muto_ had held her frame nicely and accentuated her features with kindness.

Erik slipped his beige mask off, setting it down on top of his desk as he reached for Death's. Turning back to his reflection he laughed flatly, realizing that even Death's face would be an improvement over his own. Scoffing at his ugly flesh, he placed the skeletal mask over his face and smoothed his hair down over the wire that fitted it. Content with his appearance, Erik crossed over to the piano and picked up his opera, which shook slightly with anticipation in his hands, as if the music inside it were impatient to be released upon the world.

"I never dreamed this day possible," he whispered to himself, running his gloved hand over the smooth black cover. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the small, blue velvet box that he'd left beside his music stand. He tucked his opera under his arm and picked up the box, gently opening it to peer inside. Beautifully small and intricate diamonds glistered in the candlelight before his eyes. "This one even less so."

He closed the ring box and slipped it into his inner coat pocket, where it seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds as he ascended up to the opera house and made his way to Christine's dorm. His nerves were shot by the time he made it to her hall, the anxieties of his plans for the evening catching up with him, gripping him tightly as if he were in a vice. He could barely breathe as he knocked, waiting for her to make her way across the small room to open the door.

When she finally did all he could do was smile. His Christine stood before him like an angel of darkness in her bewitching costume, a wicked smile spread across her face. Her gown was knee length to allow for movement, with satin black fabric on top and a hem made of bold, blood colored lace, matching his own costume perfectly. The corset she wore was also black, with finely detailed glass beads and embroidered roses stitched throughout it. Her hair was half-up and half-down, pulled back from her face while still slipping over the front of her shoulders elegantly. The golden mask she wore covered the top half of her face with dangerously sharp features that swirled into the shape of her cheeks flawlessly. He noticed that her lips had been painted a seductively deep maroon shade, which Erik was sure he had Meg to thank for.

"And who may I ask are you tonight, my dear?" he inquirred. " _A Dream Within a Dream_? The alluringly exquisite _Annabel Lee_?"

"So complimentary," she mused with a grin, placing her hands on his chest. "Might I also be permitted to compliment you, monsuier?"

He watched her peek out into the dim hall for a moment. When she saw that they were alone she pulled on the lapels of his coat, bringing him forward into her small room as she closed the door behind them. She leaned up and kissed him passionately then, her small fingers entwining one another behind his neck as their masks touched (he had to admit another mask touching his mask was quite the odd occurrence). Only after a moment of pure bliss did he remember the red paint she was wearing on her lips. He pulled back immediately, expecting to see it smudged all over her face. To his surprise though it was still perfectly intact. Christine laughed at him.

"I don't know what she used, but it doesn't move an _inch_ ," she promised, a risque tone in her voice.

"Well, in that case..."

* * *

Christine's cheeks were flushed bright pink from their stolen kisses, her smile contagious as Erik led her through the main ballroom doors. Inside, the entire party was already abuzz with people, all dressed up in a dazzling array of colors of shapes. He spotted Meg with her date, a monsieur Anthony, almost immediately, and the dancer squealed with excitement as she came rushing over to Christine's side. The small blonde woman was dressed in a flowing white and silver gown, in complete contrast to the colors which Christine wore. The effect of them standing next to each other was practically a work of art. They couldn't have looked more different, yet they seemed to almost match somehow, Meg an angel from Heaven and his Christine one who had fallen to Earth.

"You and I are lucky men," he heard Anthony say wistfully from beside him.

"That we are," Erik agreed, a smile playing upon his lips.

Erik had to admit the party itself was wonderful. Even more so because Christine had taught him to dance. Though he'd never attempted it before she'd forced him to, he'd known enough that once they'd started that night he'd figured it out quite quickly. Now he found the moves came effortlessly to him as he spun Christine around the dance floor, watching the red of her gown swirl around them and flutter to the floor as another song ended. Feeling the music flow through him and seeing Christine's beautiful smile he found he couldn't help but kiss her there on the dance floor, not giving a damn as to who saw them. The kiss was quick and chaste, one that couldn't be deemed inappropriate for public, but a full kiss nonetheless. Her cheeks were blushing when they parted as everyone applauded the small orchestra playing tonight. The composer stood and announced they would be taking a break for a few moments, to prepare for the midnight finale. The dance floor slowly cleared, everyone either searching for alcohol or finding conversation in one another.

"Do you want to step outside for a few?" Christine asked him. "Get a little air?"

Erik agreed that air would be wonderful, and watched Christine race off to grab her cloak. As he watched her walk away he found himself reaching up to touch his coat, making sure he could still feel the ring box inside of it. With a sigh of relief as he felt the outline, he walked over to one of the side tables and grabbed a glass of champagne, quickly downing the vile, bubbly taste to calm his nerves. As he set the glass back down he turned and ran straight into a man in a black matador's costume, who laughed at the collision as he put up a hand to Erik's chest to balance himself.

"Oh dear, sorry about that. Do pardon me," the man apologized as he pushed past Erik to fetch drink. Erik glared at the man's back as he walked away, a glass in each hand. To him the night seemed a bit young for someone to already be intoxicated enough to lose his bearings.

"You ready?"

Erik turned to see Christine, now wrapped in her dark cloak. She held out her hand for him to take. Forgetting the stupidity of others, he smiled and took hold it, leading her towards the door to the rooftop. He let her step inside first, then stepped passed her to lead the way through the blackness.

"Surely you will always be around to lead me up and down dark stairwells?" she mused with a giggle, referring to when he had first led her into his lair.

Erik smiled at the memory. "But of course."

He pushed open the door to the roof, letting the cold night air caress them. He was closing the door behind them when he turned to see Christine twirling about in the snow drift, her arms spread wide. Her eyes were full of wonder as she stopped to look out over the streets of Paris. The view from the rooftop was grand. He'd spent many nights up here alone in his lifetime. One could see for miles and miles throughout the grand city from this vantage point. One could look out and dream impossible dreams up here.

"It's so splendid," she whispered, leaning over the stone balcony. "Erik, do come and look!"

Erik, amused, crossed over to her side. As he stood there Christine wrapped both her arms around his right one and leaned into his shoulder tenderly.

"Look at all the lights..." she said wistfully. "Have you ever seen a more beautiful sight?"

Erik turned towards her, a gentle smile forming on his lips. He brushed a strand of her hair from her face. "I have indeed."

Christine's cheeks blushed as he pulled her towards him, wrapping her in an embrace. She was so small against him in that moment, buried in her cloak and his thick evening coat, hidden in the shadows of the night. He reached down to tilt her chin up and kiss her, yet as he did so she raised up a single finger to his lips, whispering for him to wait. She pulled her mask off, tossing it aside into the snow, then reached up to discard his in a similar manner.

Once upon a time the thought of being unmasked would have led Erik into a frenzy, but in this moment he didn't even notice Christine looking up at his true face. He was too lost in the sparkle of her eyes and the sweet smile on her lips as he bent down to claim her tender kiss. Feeling excitable, he pulled her tightly against him, treasuring the taste and feel of her there in his arms. As he did so he heard her exclaim a sense of discomfort. She pulled back slightly with a confused look on her face before reaching up to unbutton his jacket, noticing the bump beneath the fabric.

He noticed as she worked that two of his middle buttons had been lost, probably in the business of the party. He thought about reaching up and stopping her hands as they worked, but instead he just stood there waiting as she undid the last of the remaining buttons and reached into his inner coat pocket. He felt her grab hold of the velvet box inside, and saw the confusion in her eyes deepen as she pulled it out and held it between them. Tears were forming in her eyes then as she ran her fingertips lightly over the top enclosure. She looked up at him with the sweetest, most innocent tear filled smile he'd ever seen. He would forever remember her face like that, so in love and so overcome with emotion in that perfectly balanced way.

"Erik...?" she whispered his name ever so softly, almost in disbelief.

He smiled at her tenderly and gently pried the box from her shaking fingertips. He then dropped to his knee and opened the box before her. He watched as tears spilled over her cheeks and fell to the snow, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as she gasped. Still though, despite her obvious joyful inclination, he couldn't help but feel nervous as he pulled the ring from the box and held it out to her.

"My dear," he started, rather serious now, "for as long as I've lived I've never truly felt alive until these past few months. You've made me a better person and have filled my life with more happiness than I could ever dreamed possible. I cannot imagine anyone else I would rather spend the rest of my days with than you." He began to cry as well, his tears mingling with hers as he watched her hold her breath with anticipation. "Christine...will you marry me? Will you grant me the greatest joy a man can know and become my willful and living bride?"

Christine dropped to her knees and threw herself into him, her arms laced around his neck. He fell himself fall backwards in to the snow, Christine on top of him as they both laughed. She kissed him long and hard, her joyous tears turning her sweet kisses salty in flavor. When they finally parted Erik was smiling and holding the side of her face in his hand, running his thumb across her cheek with his forehead pressed to hers.

"That was a yes, by the way," he heard her whisper shyly as she got off of him and offered him a hand. "In case you needed it in words." As he stood he took Christine's left hand in his and carefully slid the ring over her fourth finger. They both stood in each other's arms then, both slightly damp from laying in the snow, and looked down at their entwined hands. Christine's engagement ring glittered brightly on her pale hand, and seemed even brighter due to the contrast of his dark leather gloves.

He kissed her again, this time reveling in joy as he realized he was now kissing his fiancee. He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that this wasn't a dream and that Christine had indeed agreed to be his wife. He'd never felt such happiness, such elation. He picked her up by the waist and spun her around, her cloak twisting like a beautiful dark shadow in the breeze behind her.

"We should probably return before someone comes looking for us," Christine said with a smile, reaching down to pick up their discarded masks from the snow. She brushed them off and handed Erik his, which he slipped back over his face with a shudder, feeling the icy chill it had gathered from the ground. He then offered Christine his arm, which she took in her hands with a loving smile as he opened the door and led them back down to the party.

It seemed much warmer inside the ballroom now then it had when they'd first stepped outside. Christine immediately unlaced her cloak and hooked it beneath the closest lamp with a carefree shrug before taking his hand once more.

"Shall we make an announcement? Christine asked. "Or shall I just go show Meg and Mary my ring? I'm sure between the two of them all of Paris would know within the hour, especially if I told them not to tell anyone."

"Why don't you decide while I go and fetch my opera for the managers? I left it back in your dorm for safe keeping. If you'd like we can tell everyone everything all at once! I can let everyone know of my greatest achievement," he winked at her and she giggled, "as well as my plans for _Don Juan Triumphant_."

His fiancee nodded her head and rushed off to find Meg, a happy bounce in her step. Erik watched her skip away, his heart warm and content as he imagined the upcoming day when she would become his wife. He fastened his jacket back up as he walked through the halls, slightly annoyed by the missing buttons but all together in too happy a mood to complain. He quickly retrieved his opera's score from the dorm room and walked with confidence back towards the ballroom. Every step he took he felt happier and happier, anticipating the way the rest of the night would go. The managers would surely love his opera, he had no doubt of that, and then he could announce it to the crowd along his engagement. He could then spend the rest of the evening dancing with Christine before finally walking her back to her dorm to kiss her goodnight. Though the evening was far from over, Erik already considered it the most blessed night of his life.

As it was though, the night would not continue to be so blessed. As Erik reached out for the ballroom door he heard a piercing scream ring out from inside, followed by a rush of commotion. Fearing for Christine's safety, Erik dropped his opera to the ground without another thought and burst through the doors like a madman, scanning for her in the bustling crowd. He spotted her being pulled backwards into a throng of people far away from him, thoughts of that ago haunting vision returning to him in a flash. He instantly stepped forward, anger pulsing through him. How dare anyone touch her! Had dare anyone lay a hand on her! He suddenly felt two large men grabbing his arms on either side, tugging him backwards and pinning him against the wall. Various angry voices sounded from the crowd.

"Murderer!"

"He dresses as Death himself!"

"Monster!"

Erik couldn't seem to comprehend their words, even though they rang out in such cruel and blatant clarity. His only focus was on Christine, pulling against the people that held her back as she cried out his name in a tormented, heartbroken wail. He fought and pulled against the men who held him, breaking free from their grasp and pushing through the crowd towards her. Various women screamed and ran from his path, others slowly backing away as he moved. He lost sight of Christine in all the movement, yet to his horror could now see the cause of everyone's panic.

Laying at the base of the ballroom's grand staircase was the body of Joseph Buquet. A thick rope had been wrapped around his neck like a noose, pulled tightly until it had killed him. This was evident from the disgusting blue and purple tinge in his face and the disturbing bulge in his wide, unseeing eyes. His body as a whole was twisted mid-spine at an impossible angle, as if it had been tossed from the top of the stairs and had rolled down violently to it's final resting place. Erik nearly vomited at the sight. As much as he hated the man for what he did to Christine he wouldn't wish this sort of a grisly, public death on anyone.

As he stood frozen in place staring at the body he felt at least three men crash into him from all sides. He was forced down to his knees and finally onto his face, the hardness of the skeletal mask pressing into his deformity, causing him sharp pains he'd never felt before. He glanced up to see the men who had tackled him to be officers of the law, who then proceeded to bind his hands together with brute force. Erik glanced back to the body of Buquet and realized with sudden horror that they had had been called upon to arrest _him_ for the murder. As if he had been the one to do such a thing!

Erik cursed the people around him with hatred for ruining the greatest night of his life. Even without seeing his true face they had all assumed him to be a monster and murderous devil. Even when there was no just cause for such accusations! Not a damned piece of evidence to even put him near Buquet at the time he had been killed! Erik hadn't even known the man had been released from prison, let alone that he would be here tonight.

As Erik shifted to try and find Christine in the crowd one of the officers moved their hand firmly to the back of his neck, holding him paralyzed in place. He prayed that Adelaide had been able to find her already in this mess of people, and that she was safe and couldn't see the humiliation being brought down upon him.

He didn't want her seeing such things. Not when she had thought so highly of him just moments before. To be reduced to such a thing, to be held down as if he were a child again as his captors whipped him, it was more than he could bare. He stopped fighting against them in defeat, allowing them to pull him up to his feet. Christine wasn't anywhere within his sight when they did so, which he was both grateful and fearful of. As the officers pushed him forward he tried to wrap his mind around what their logical explanation for his arrest would be. He had been with Christine the entire night and people had surely seen that. He hadn't had the time alone to go about and commit a murder. He glanced over his shoulder one last time at the deceased man that could very well condemn him to a life spent in prison. It was then that he noticed something he hadn't before.

Buquet's twisted arm was palm up where it had landed, and slightly slipping from the corpse's grasp were two golden buttons. The same two he had lost.

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* * *

 ** _Why so silent, good messieurs? Did you think that I had left out conflict for goooooooood?_** ** _Did you miss me, good messieurs? I have written you an update!_** **Stay tuned and do let me know what you think of our turn of events!**

 **xoxo** ,

 **Nicole**


	28. Fade to Black

Fade to Black

Christine

1871

The clamor of the crowd surrounding Christine was deafening. All at once there was shrill screaming, followed by panic en mass. Warm bodies closed in hard on either side of her, pressing her smaller and smaller into herself; she could think of nothing else but the need to breathe as the throng tightened. Though she didn't know the catalyst that had caused the commotion surrounding her, she instinctively knew she needed to get out of the ballroom as quickly as she could, that she had to find her finance and seek safe haven elsewhere.

As she struggled to push through the multitude of colorfully costumed bodies, she could see the main doors ahead of her as they burst open. Her heart sighed in relief to see Erik whole and well, standing in the entrance-way. There seemed to be something off about his demeanor however. His stance was frantic in appearance and he had a wild look in his eyes as he scanned the room methodically. She wasn't the only one to notice him either. Seemingly all at once every patron in the room shifted their eyes towards his presence.

The next few moments that transpired were a blur. Christine watched helplessly from afar as two men, both dressed in cerulean, reared up and pinned Erik to the wall. She shouted then, violently shoving people out of the way to go to his aid. In retrospect she didn't know how she would've helped him if she had made it to his side, but that thought had only occurred later. At the present time all she knew was that he needed her. As she attempted to advance towards him though more people gathered, blocking her path and grabbing at her dress. In terror, between the many patrons' shoulders, she could see him fighting against his aggressors, hitting one in the ribs with his elbow and causing them to double forward in pain.

In that moment his eyes met hers through the crowd. His gaze was pleading as he stared at her, and she felt inside of herself their shared, unspoken fears reflected equally. She cried out for him then, in desperation for the comfort and security that only he could grant her in times of peril. She needed to be by his side, needed them to escape the surrounding madness before it consumed them both completely. She reached for him, only a few feet away, and saw him do the same, when suddenly sweaty hands grabbed at her from behind. A large woman in emerald green gripped her right shoulder and forearm in a vice, and another all in white tugged at her skirt. She felt herself being pulled backwards. The two women were shouting at her in almost a protective manner, but she didn't hear a word they said. She started to cry helplessly as she called out for her lover, cried out for sense to be made of this nightmare that was engulfing them. She pulled and twisted, trying to free herself, but she was small in comparison to the women at her flanks. She could do nothing to be free of their grasps and could only stare forward in agony, watching Erik disappear behind a throng of paper faces.

Christine wouldn't lose him though. Not that easily. Not when they'd fought so hard to be together at last. Determination electrified her body and with a jolt of courage she leaned to the right and bit down as hard as she could on her main captor's hand. It was all she could think to do, and she prayed it would work. The woman's palm was warm in her mouth and she could feel the scrunching of cartilage as it moved between her teeth. She released her bite only when she felt skin start to break. She felt terribly guilty for such a brash action, yet relieved all the same as the woman let out a violent shriek, ripping away from her with a curse. Christine could barely see anything through her tears by then, everything before her eyes drowned out in a watery haze. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, the sound of its violent palpitations deafening as she fought desperately to grasp hold of her bearings in the midst of a hundred shades of color. But it was no use. It was as if she were trapped in a hurricane of paint as the Parisians around her continued to bustle about, confusing her every which way she turned. Blindly she began to weave in and out of bodies, making her way towards the staircase in the middle of the room. If she couldn't make it back to the main doors, she would escape upwards.

As she closed in on her target she noticed the area around the base of the staircase to be devoid of people. In that space were no people stood there was a mass of some sort lying upon the floor. Surrounding said mass was a ring of patrons, standing still as mannequins. So much unlike the rest of the room, these people seemed transfixed where they stood, oblivious to time. Christine cautiously made her way towards the ring. As she did the mass on the floor took a hauntingly familiar shape that made bile rise up from her stomach and gag her. Recognition flooded through her, followed by revulsion, as she stared down at the corpse of Joseph Buquet, sprawled out over the final step of the grand staircase in an unnatural and unholy contortion. The nausea instead her threatened to surface as her head began to swim. She reached back to steady herself, only to grasp a hold of empty air. She fell backwards to the floor then, the image of her past attacker twisted and broken seared into her mind, flashing before her eyes. She was only vaguely aware of hitting the marble. Of the cold, hard impact of her hip striking the unforgiving stone and shooting a spasm up her spine.

"Murderer!" She heard one singular voice cry out from above her, the tone in the man's voice a deep and clear bass that seemed to shatter the fog she found herself in. Past ankles and hemlines Christine could see Erik, now standing before the deceased man. He seemed frozen in shock, or perhaps great and terrible guilt. She wasn't sure. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. She simply lay there, barely supporting herself with her arm, and watched distraught as policemen surrounded her fiance, forcing him to the ground.

 _He couldn't have._

Christine's breathing came in agonizing bursts, her free hand flying up to cover her mouth. Her tears flowed freely, passing overtop her fingers and trailing down her arm. She watched as Erik fought wildly against the officers, his frightening demeanor one Christine had never seen before. He was, in that moment, the monster she knew he'd never wanted to become. He seemed rabid almost, clawing and kicking about, yelling noises that were brutally wild and so out of character for him. As much as she feared for his safety, she couldn't help but also feel a fear of a different sort rising up inside of her. A fear of Erik himself. She wanted to scold herself for such a fear, but found she couldn't.

Because this man before wasn't the same man she knew and loved.

This was a different man entirely. A demon in her angel's form. Her eyes flickered back and forth between Erik and Buquet. She noticed in Buquet's hand the missing buttons from Erik's jacket as they began to slip out from between his large, blue rigoring fingers. Her heart sank like a stone. She tried to look away but found herself staring. She clutched her chest tightly in desperate need to breathe, but oxygen didn't come to her. She looked down in a panic. Her corset seemed to be squeezing the life from her, clinging tighter and tighter as her anxiety increased. In holding her chest she caught glimpse of her engagement ring, glistering under the bright lights, mocking her pain as she suffocated.

 _He wouldn't have!_

Christine's memories of when she was attacked were crystal clear. She remembered the ear splitting crunch of the stage manager's bones that night as Erik had broken them. She distinctively recalled the scent and sight of sticky blood on her lover's hands as he'd held her in his arms and tried to comfort her. As grateful as she was that he had saved her that night, the violence he'd emitted had frightened her a great deal. If Erik had indeed faced confrontation with that same man again tonight, there was no doubt in her mind that he could have killed him. He almost had before, after all, and he had personal reason enough to want to finish what he'd started. But could he have done it? Could he have, in rightful and sound mind, taken a life on the eve of their engagement, jeopardizing all they'd built together? All their dreams for the future?

Another memory came to her then, of Erik in her dressing room, confessing to her of that long ago time in his youth when he'd killed his gypsy keeper in the dead of night. No matter the reason behind it, no matter the justification, she knew her lover had murdered before. To save his own life, he had taken another's. She'd understood, of course, that he'd had no ultimatum back then. He surely would have died soon after had he not acted as he had. She knew that taking that life had left him with scars though. Scars etched into his very soul that still weighed heavy on his mind each and every day, haunting and daunting him. In the eyes of God he had broken one of the Ten Commandments that night, and had never truly sought peace for his sins in the aftermath. Instead he had hid away, isolating himself and driving himself further and further from humanity for years. He had been an angry and broken man for the vast majority of his life because of it. She'd seen that side of him, if only for a moment, the day she'd first unmasked him. Somewhere inside of him, no matter how much she tried to believe there wasn't, there was a darkness. A man furious with the world. A man scorned, angry, and violent if provoked.

A man who had probably killed again tonight. Who'd probably once again let that darkness overtake him in a moment of rage. She desperately looked into his face, searching to find the kind man she knew and loved. The man who held her tenderly and kissed her with such soft gentleness, as if she were a flower he could crush. The artist whose music brought her to tears. The voice that had brought her salvation when she'd had none left. Where was that man? Gone, it seemed. Before her was merely a stranger.

 _Why don't I recognize him?_

She pictured Erik's hands, pulling at the ropes around Buquet's neck, a dark look in his eyes that was distant, hard and cold. Who was this man in her head? She didn't know him. Didn't and couldn't find compassion for him. He was no protector in that mirage. Only a demon. A phantom set loose inside the opera house. A child of the Devil himself, bound for Hell. A man who had masqueraded as an angel to find way into her heart, only to tear it out and let it bleed in his hands as he threw away everything they ever were in a moment of madness.

 _A great fool I was..._

Erik pulled violently against the officers' grips in once last attempt at freedom and the crowd in front of Christine jumped back in reaction. She was shoved then, losing what little balance she had left. Her vision faded to black as the back of her head kissed the marble dance floor, and with grateful bliss she slipped into a welcoming dreamless state, far away from the pain and betrayal she felt piercing her heart.

In her last thought as she fell unconscious, she prayed for this evening to be nothing more then a cruel nightmare.

 _A great fool blinded by love and its promises..._

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	29. Watch Over Her

Watch Over Her

1871

 _Adelaide_

Adelaide poured herself another glass of wine and sighed, staring down at her desk in silent despair. She couldn't stop thinking of how quickly such a joyous night had gone array. One minute she'd been drinking and laughing, delighted at the way the patrons around herself danced and rejoiced in celebration. The next she had seen the body of Joseph Buquet, tumbling down the grand staircase as if he were no more then a sack of meat prepping for shipment. She'd screamed, horrified, and felt her voice crack as she'd dropped her glass of champagne to the ground. She'd heard it shatter and felt the alcohol splash her shoes, seeping into her hose. Then she'd watched the room around her explode in violent reaction. Immediately, the mother in her had panicked. She'd run to fetch Meg, finding her daughter huddled against a wall, safely tucked away in Anthony's arms. He'd shielded Meg from seeing the horrors they had seen, and for that Adelaide would forever be grateful to the young man. Meg didn't need to see such a grisly murder. No matter how strong she appeared, Adelaide knew she daughter could be fragile at times.

"Erik! No! Please, no - let me through! Erik!"

Adelaide had turned then to see Christine being pulled through the crowd by two women Adelaide knew to be mother's themselves. At the same time Erik had been pinned to the wall by some godforsaken mongrels, and Adelaide herself had tried to go to his aide. By the time she'd pushed her way through the mob though he had already done the same, blindly racing past her towards the direction Christine had been carted off to. Adelaide had cursed him aloud then, turning and fumbling once more through the crowd as people stepped on the base of her satin dress and tripped her again and again. Then, from afar, she'd watched in helpless defeat as Paris' finest stole her dearly adopted brother away into the night.

Employees of the opera house had stepped forward to move Buquet's body from sight afterwords. Adelaide could recall staring at the corpse as they'd lifted it, feeling hatred sear through her. Her brother had not murdered this man, that she knew. Her brother was no killer, but an artist. A misunderstood musician who cried at lightning storms and loved with all his heart. He was a man who had been shown no compassion in his life, and yet was more compassionate towards others than anyone else she had ever known.

Christine had been found by Meg, who had called out in fright to Adelaide as people began to pour out the building. The young soprano appeared to have fainted, and Adelaide couldn't blame her. To lose a loved one; Adelaide knew that feeling all too well.

"Mother...look."

As Anthony had laid Christine down into her bed, Meg had taken hold of her hand in comfort. It was then that they'd all noticed the sparking ring that glistened on her left hand. Meg had kissed that hand tenderly, her eyes full of tears, before standing up to leave with Anthony, who placed his jacket over her shoulders and held the small of her back in support as they'd left the room. Adelaide had stayed with Christine for a short time afterwards, brushing the hair from her face and rubbing the smudges of makeup from beneath her eyes as she slept. She'd hoped her adopted daughter was finding some sense of peace in her dreams. She'd prayed that while she was lost to the world she was laughing, lost in a fairytale land where her and Erik were still together, playing the kind of music only they two could hear. For when she awoke, life would once again be cruel, and Adelaide would have to be the one to hold her as she fell to pieces all over again.

"I love you, sweet child," she'd whispered, pulling Christine's covers up and blowing out her bedside candle. "Remember that."

Adelaide's eyes had fallen once more to Christine's engagement ring as she'd stood up and closed the door behind her, stepping out into the hall. It appeared that Christine had said yes to Erik's proposal. Adelaide knew she would, of course. She and Erik were inseparable, two pieces of an odd and unlikely puzzle that somehow clicked together in a peculiar yet perfect work of art. She had to admit, however, that she had been weary of such a relationship at first. It had seemed so inappropriate to her, the man she considered a younger brother and a woman she viewed as a daughter coming together. She'd thought for sure Erik had been using his position as her tutor to take advantage of her, both emotionally and physically. It had been a foolish fear, of course. She knew her brother to be a gentleman, and also knew that the love he had for Christine was of the purest variety.

To see Erik get married though. Why, she'd never thought she'd live to see the day. Thinking this, she felt her eyes begin to water up once more as she realized that now perhaps she never would. She thought of her brother then, scared and alone, locked away in a dark cell alongside the true scum of Paris. Murders, rapists, and thieves were among those held prisoner in La Sante, and Erik was none of those things. He was an intelligent man, one who never jeopardize the life he'd worked so hard to create for himself. The life he wanted so badly to share with their Christine.

The hours passed as Adelaide sipped her wine slowly, lost in thought as to how she could possibly help him now. She didn't know much of the Parisian legal system, yet greatly feared the outcome of the trial he would be given. For surely the guards at La Santa had already stripped away his mask. To be exposed to others was his greatest fear, and for a good reason. He was terrifying to look at. Though she hated to admit it his face frightened her a great deal. Would a jury be able to look past that monstrous face? See the human behind it and the true man underneath? Would they even allow him to speak? Adelaide wondered if Christine had ever seen Erik's true face before. If the two were to be married one day Adelaide hoped so, for if not that would come as quite the shock to her on their wedding night. That is, if they ever got the chance to have such a night.

It was only an hour or two until sunrise came, and Adelaide stared at the empty bottle of wine on the corner of her desk with resentment. The glass in her hand witheld the last of its contents, and those few red droplets it contained seemed precious to her. She was slightly intoxicated, which she was grateful for, but knew with no more wine the feeling would soon pass and she would once again be sober and distraught. In her current state, she hardly even heard the sound of footsteps coming up the hall. She did, however, recognize the creaking sound of her bedroom door as it opened.

At the sound, Adelaide's sluggish gaze drifted upwards. Christine appeared in her doorway, standing like a small babe hopelessly lost in the wood. Her hair was tangled to one side, and her makeup once again had run down her face. The young woman before her trembled, still in costume, gripping tight a large leatherbound booklet in one hand and what looked like a piece of satin ribbon in the other.

"I don't understand," she murmured through tear-filled eyes. "Please Madame, help me to understand."

Adelaide felt her eyes soften as Christine's anguish filled the room like a dark cloud on a sunny day. Before her eyes the young soprano stood no taller than she had the night her father had died. Once again that same shadow of death and abandonment seemed to loom behind her, snaking its way into her soul, breaking her down from the inside out. Adelaide set her wine glass down and stood up, crossing the room and embracing her. Christine, being such a petite woman, felt no larger than a child in her arms as she she sobbed violently into her shoulder. The young girl stayed like that a moment, before finally pulling back in grief and frustration. Her face turned red then as she angrily thrust down the booklet in her hand. The leather hit the ground with a slap, its contents slipping out onto the floor towards the hem of Adelaide's dress. It was sheet music, Adelaide realized. The booklet appeared to contain an opera of sorts.

"I just can't believe he would do something like this," Christine stated through clenched teeth. "I thought he was a good man, Madame! I thought that he loved me - that he wanted a future together! Who does he think he is? To play God! To choose who lives and who dies?"

Adelaide's voice caught in her throat. She wasn't sure she'd heard Christine correctly at first. She had to blink away a moment of fuzziness in order to focus in on what she was implying. When she did, a white hot fury began to blaze inside of her. For the little girl she had raised, the fiancee to her brother, believed the very lies being spread about him. She was, then and there, no different from the hundreds of other blind sheep that had cast him aside into a cell. That had doomed him back to darkness.

"Why, you stupid girl! You stupid, ignorant child!" Adelaide leaned back and picked up her wine glass, hurling it towards Christine, a feeling of protectiveness washing over her in regards to her dearly adopted brother. It shattered against the door by her side, the blood red wine running down her bedroom wallpaper. Christine flinched in response, her eyes wide and afraid. "You claim to love Erik, yet look at how you tremble in fear! You obviously know nothing of him! Nothing of who he is. He is no killer - he is your intended for Christ's sake! You of all people should know this murder was not by his hands. For you to think such a thing...you are unworthy of him - unworthy of the love in his heart!"

Adelaide slammed her hands down onto her desk in frustration. She too began to cry, realizing that perhaps only she herself would ever be able to see her brother for who he truly was. Not even Christine, the love of his life, the air to his very breath, believed in him now. It was a crippling realization. Adelaide believed that if Erik had been able to hear Christine's words just then, that surely he would have died of heartbreak.

"I am grateful he is not here to see how you betray him so," Adelaide whispered in agony, turning to up at her.

Christine let out a soft whimper as fresh tears flowed from her eyes. Adelaide watched the young girl then gather up her skirt in her hands, turning to flee. Adelaide could hear her as she ran down the hall, her footsteps fading farther and farther away with each passing second.

 _God in Heaven, what have I done?_

Adelaide stood up abruptly, bumping against her desk. She had to go to Christine, had to right the wrongs of the words she had just slung. Adelaide knew her little girl hadn't meant what she'd said, that she was only afraid and confused by all that had happened. But in the midst of the alcohol flowing through her veins and the pain in her heart Adelaide had been blind to her sensitivities, so much so that she hadn't thought rationally before speaking.

 _Please don't do anything rash, my child._

She raced after Christine, running down the halls towards the entrance to the opera house. Winded by age and slow without her cane, she stopped to rest at the top of the staircase, leaning against one of the banisters and watching in horror as her dear Christine stole out into the night, still clutching in her hands that lone strand of black satin ribbon. From atop the staircase Adelaide could feel the icy chill in the air as the door slammed shut behind her. Outside the winter winds were cold as death, and Christine was not dressed to be exposed to such elements. Adelaide ran back to her room and grabbed her cloak, swinging it over her shoulders and tying it tight. She then took hold of her cane and turned to pull one of her lanterns from its hook, setting out after Christine, worry and fear clutching her heart. With how small the soprano was, surely the unforgiving snowfall would freeze her alive within the hour. Adelaide had already lost Erik. She couldn't lose Christine as well.

"Gustave, please," she begged as she looked up into the night sky, "watch over her."

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	30. The Soprano's Soliloquy

The Soprano's Soliloquy

1871

 _Christine_

Christine ran. She sprinted from the room, clutching the fabric of her dress in her fists. She stole a single glance down at the ribbon in her hand as she flew down the stairs, feeling a pang in her heart as she clutched it tightly and sobbed. She didn't know what to think anymore, what to believe. The back of her head still pounded from when she'd struck it on the dance floor, and Mme. Giry's words still echoed in her mind, deafening her.

 _You are unworthy of him - unworthy of the love in his heart!_

The Madame was right, she was unworthy. All the love that Erik had given her, all the wonders he had shown her over the years, and yet she'd still allowed herself to think him guilty. Still believed that he had committed an atrocity so unbefitting of the character she knew him to be. What had been going through her head to think such deplorable thoughts? Had she lost her senses completely? How had fear laced itself so deeply inside of her?

She flung the doors to the opera house open, taking only a second to look out into the blackness ahead of her with apprehension before stepping out into the night. Immediately the cold, dark air stung at her bare skin. Still wearing her dress from the ball, her bare legs and arms shivered. Icicles hung overhead from the statues that surrounded the building, and a light snow drifted down from the sky. As she took in a single shaky breath she felt a chill in her lungs, causing her spine to quiver beneath her skin. In a more rational state of mind, she would have turned around and gone back inside, into the arms of her adopted mother, begging forgiveness.

But it wasn't Mme. Giry's forgiveness that she needed. It was Erik's, and he was too far gone to reach. Her tears still falling, she once again ran. She skidded to a stop once she reached the opera house stables, fumbling with the door, frantically shaking its padlock with hysteria. Inside she could hear Leroux whiny in response to her cries, which only increased her determination to see her. That horse had been a gift from Erik, that night one that had brought her more happiness than she could ever recall having before. Christine needed to see her. Needed to remember Erik as the man she'd known that night.

She walked around the side of the stable, noticing a second door there. The door was weathered, with a small hole near the bottom that a rat had probably chewed through, and was painted to match the wall. One wouldn't even notice it had they not been searching for it. Christine jiggled the latch that held it shut. It was locked as well, but loose with age. She reared back and slammed her shoulder against the door, and it fell open as the latch broke off and fell to the icy ground. Inside the stable was dark at the caverns below the opera house, but Christine didn't have any fear venturing in. After all, Erik had been right. Horses were far better than humans. Far kinder indeed.

Leroux's eyes lit up the darkness that surrounded her upon seeing Christine. That look in her eyes made Christine weep all the more as she threw her small arms around the horse's face and rested her cheek upon its fur. The animal was warm and understanding, and made a small noise as if to say she understood her owner's woes. Christine watched her tears fall upon Leroux's fur, and leaned back to pet her face and whisper a soft greeting. In the stall next door Caesar began to whine, hearing her voice, probably assuming Erik to be not far behind her. Christine could only touch the paneling of the wood of his stall and sigh, not being able to bring herself to look upon Erik's horse.

"He'll be home soon, Caesar. Don't fret," she lied in a sad voice though the panel.

Christine was visibly shaking now, her arms quivering as she looked down at their raised gooseflesh. The bitter air around her was something terrible, yet as the same time the numbness was more than welcome. It was a pain that reminded her that she was alive. That she would survive to see Erik again one day. That things could perhaps turn out alright for them in the end.

She led Leroux out of her stall and placed her saddle over the horses back, tightening the strap on the base until it seemed secure. Then she walked her horse out of the stable. Through the snowy clouds the moon had begun to shine, making her horse's ginger patches ripple brightly in the darkness. She climbed atop her and gave a pat to her shoulder. The horse seemed to understand what she needed, and set off into the woods.

The animal stopped by the familiar part of the trail they had gone to not too long ago. Christine didn't bother to tie her up. She knew her friend would stay near to her in her time of need. Her mind quiet for a moment, she pushed past thorny branches, following the slightly worn trail she and Erik had made together. The clearing that opened up before her was just the same as it had been the night they'd shared it together, yet different all the same. The grass had, since then, browned and died from the many nights of frost, and the ground was now patched with thin layers of snow. There were no candles lit to greet her, and no laughter filling the air. Just a large empty circle with stones silently nestled amongst the edges of its thistle. Still though, the sight of their special place made her heart grow warm, if only in the tiniest amount. She looked up at the sky, and instead of dark storm clouds she saw the stars the same as she had that blessed night. She remembered Erik's voice clear as day as he spoke in wonder to her about the constellations and the true beauty that was the night.

She found herself wavering as the cold bit at her toes through her shoes. She could see her breath before her, looking like the ghost of her soul floating in front of her. She eventually found herself sitting upon one of the stones, ignoring the falling snow around her and wrapping her arms around her frozen legs, pulling them close to her chest. She shrunk into herself then, shivering but full of a bizarre distant contentment.

She let her mind wander, back past the sounds of the fateful screams that had ruined her engagement night. Past the sounds of chaos that had caused the world around her to fall apart. Back to the beginning of the ball. It was almost impossible for her to comprehend that such a terrible, dreadful evening had begun alight with the glorious sounds and colors that it had. She couldn't even begin to describe the feeling she'd felt when they'd first burst through those doors. There had been a sweet magic floating through the air as her friends and castmates had danced with one another. Alcohol and food had been aplenty, and romance had tinged the atmosphere. Christine had never seen so much joy in one room, so many people brought together in a single celebration.

And Erik...he had seemed truly happy. More full of joy than Christine had ever seen in him before. He'd come to her door that evening dashing and full of charm, a smile playing on his lips and soft eyes meant only for her. They'd stolen sweet kisses in her private quarters, something Christine was sure the Madame would lash them both for if ever she found out. A lashing would have been worth it though, for the kisses he'd bestowed upon her had been passionate and fiery, igniting again that urgent flame of desire inside of her. She'd felt beautiful and treasured in his arms, desirable as he'd leaned her against the wall and traced his fingertips down her arms, letting them rest on the corset of her gown as he'd pulled her flush against himself. She couldn't recall how long they'd stayed like that, trapped in love's embrace. She could only remember that when they'd finally parted she'd felt exhilarated and yet unfulfilled all at the same time.

Dancing with him had been something of a dream. His laugh had been deep and jovial as he'd swung her in circles beneath the ballroom's crystal chandelier. She'd seen in his eyes no more apprehension, no more wariness, as if he were finally learning that life was not all pain and torment and that he was allowed to indulge in the simplicities of its happinesses at long last.

The sights of Paris from the rooftop had been breathtaking. Christine could only recall one other time in her life standing on that rooftop. It had been a warm summer evening, the evening of her tenth birthday, and she'd gone up there to watch the sun set and make a wish. The oranges and reds of the sky had blended together perfectly, like a fine oil painting. From one side of the roof she could see the city lights and listen to the bustle of Paris carry up through the winds. On the other side she could look out into the country, the forest and the river seeming to have jumped straight from one of her picture books. She'd been leaning over the edge of the rail when Mme. Giry had snatched her up in her arms from behind, eyes frantic and teary with worry. As a child Christine hadn't been able to comprehend fear. She'd never thought that leaning so far into the wind could cause one to fall. After the Madame had explained such risks to her she'd made her promise she'd never go up there alone again, and so she hadn't.

Until that evening. Until she'd wanted to feel that beauty again and share it with the man who meant more to her than life itself. As she'd burst through the rooftop door she could remember the feeling of utter delight that had flowed through her. She'd run straight to that very same railing, in awe of how much the city had changed since her childhood. The buildings and trees alike all seemed taller, as if they'd grown alongside her. The lights of the city were brighter than she'd ever seen them, everyone celebrating the coming New Year.

She hadn't expected Erik's proposal. When she'd felt the ring box through his jacket she'd stood shocked in sheer disbelief. It was only when she'd held it in her hands that the moment had truly been real to her. Only when she saw Erik drop to his knee in front of her that she'd allowed herself to cry, overcome with happiness, feeling as though her heart may burst from her chest trying to contain such a joy. She hadn't even felt the chill of the snow as they laid in it and kissed. Whenever she was in his arms she was safe and warm.

Christine held up her shaking hand in the moonlight, ignoring the bluish tint that her fingers had taken on, looking at the ring that adorned her hand so perfectly. The golden band was woven in a filigree pattern, meeting the sides of the diamond it held in a precious embrace. She'd never seen a ring like it. She was sure it had been custom, Erik being the artist he was. He wouldn't have had it any other way. She pulled the ring from her finger and kissed it lightly, letting her tears fall upon her fingers as she held it close to her heart, a heart so close to shattering beyond repair.

She blamed herself wholeheartedly for his arrest. Had she been stronger, had she never left his side, then perhaps things might have gone differently. Perhaps he'd still be here with her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright. To stroke her hair and sing words of comfort in her ear. She needed that now more then ever. Needed the soothing sound of his voice to pull her back to reality and out of this state of numbness she now found herself in. The world seemed so bleak and cold without him. She seemed so cold.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered into the surrounding whistling air,"truly, I am. I never should have doubted you, my love. Please...forgive me. Find it in your heart. Grant me forgiveness."

Her begging words were granted no reply, and she could only hope that from his prison cell somehow Erik knew the love in her heart was only for him. That somehow he could tell her only thoughts as she closed her eyes were of him and his touches, of the playful sweetness in his eyes when they kissed, and of the look of passion in his eyes as he played the piano for her.

"Please forgive me..."

She felt herself slipping into a dark place. She couldn't feel her fingers or legs as she tried to stand. She felt herself fall. A cold sensation pressed into her entire right side, and she shook violently for a moment before falling still. Her eyes fluttered only a moment more, and she looked up to see the moon full and bright, bathing her in its light. It was such a beautiful sight to behold. Could Erik see the same moon? He would find it most beautiful, that she was sure of.

Picturing his face, Christine's eyes drifted shut. The white forest around her fell away. Distantly, she heard her name being called out. At the same time she felt an odd sense of peace and warmth before her, and found herself drifting towards it.

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	31. Devil's Child Revisited

Devil's Child Revisited

1871

 _Erik_

A cage by any other name was still a cage. Erik had grown up in one, and was used to the familiar feeling of being trapped behind bars. In a way, he found his time in prison very similar to the time he'd spent with his circus captors. Everyone within the walls of La Sante seemed just as aggressive, yelling when yelling was quite unnecessary and cursing as if they worked on the docks of Calais. The building itself, though only a few years old, smelt strongly of sweat and human excrement, as if its caretakers didn't bother to mop the floors but once a year, and throughout the dark halls desperate wailing could always be heard from somewhere or another. Yes, prison was almost identical in terms of living stature and cruelty and, with it being so similar, Erik found that no rest came to him that first long night spent in jail, just as it never had when he was a child. Instead, he stayed awake, listening to various guards as they bickered, to men crying out for loved ones or God Himself, and to the eerie silence left in the wake of those taken away for their trials.

Erik himself had tried very hard since he arrived to remain calm and collected, to stay on his best behavior and not pick fights with any of the guards who chose to harass and torment him, no matter how many of them acted lower then the very prisoners they kept watch over. While it had taken every ounce of control inside him, he had somehow not even struck out as he'd been dragged through a strip search upon arrival. He'd simply endured the humiliation because he knew fighting would only worsen his current predicament, only make him appear more guilty before a court of law. And if the courts found him guilty he would never see his beloved again. Indeed, it was only for her that he had remained silent.

Thinking of Christine was Erik's only strength in this hour. When he'd first been thrown into the back of the policemen's carriage he'd been inconsolable, bombarded with horrendous flashbacks of his youth as they all surfaced seemingly at once. He'd been lost to himself for a few moments, suffering terrible pains as violent memories of being locked up returned to him with a vengeance. In those moments he'd forgotten who he was, overwhelmed with dark sensations that enveloped him with black caresses. Instead of Christine's gentle embraces he once again felt the strike of his captor's whip slicing open the scars on his back anew; he felt the ravaging aches and pains of infection as it spread through the wounds caused by it, and recalled falling over, dizzy with fear and panting as he'd wished for death. He'd even relived that same bitter feeling of watching his keeper die at his feet, as if it were happening right then and there, instead of nearly twenty years ago.

The memory of taking that man's life, no matter how much he had deserved it or how much time had passed since then, still haunted Erik each and every day. No, he hadn't killed Buquet. Though he'd wanted to the night of Christine's attack even then he had been stopped from delivering that final blow, which in the aftermath he had been grateful for. He'd never wanted want any more blood on his hands. Perhaps the managers had saved what has left of his soul by stopping him. No, unless it were a dire situation Erik had sworn long ago he would never kill again. The very notion of him being a murderer would ruin all he had built for himself. All that he shared with his dear fiancee.

Besides, even if he had killed Buquet he never would have made such a ghastly spectacle of it. It was obvious to Erik that whoever the real killer was, they'd wanted it publicly known that Buquet had been murdered, and wanted very much for he himself to take the fall for it. Though why anyone would do such a thing was still beyond his comprehension. He had no enemies that he could name. No one besides Adelaide and Christine knew him to be the phantom, and any circus goons from his past thought him long since dead and buried.

It greatly bothered Erik that he all but knew who the killer was, yet at the same time had no idea who the man behind the mask had been. Mask or no mask though, he was positive the killer had been the drunken matador who had bumped into him at the ball, seeing as that man was the only one, save for Christine, that had had any physical contact with that evening. Erik mentally kicked hinself. He should have known the night had indeed been too young for a man to be so intoxicated. Had he not been so caught up with his plans to propose to Christine perhaps he would've trusted that instinct and confronted the man for his rudeness, identifying him and putting a stop to this mad ordeal before it ever begun.

As it was, Erik was now locked up for a crime he didn't commit. The killer, however, was still on the loose, and if he knew who Erik was then surely he knew Christine as well. That fact alone frightened the living daylight out of the once powerful phantom. It was enough to make him quake, thinking that she could be hurt by this man and that he would have no way to protect her. No way to save her this time should that demon pursue her next. He punched the wall to his right in in frustration, cursing loudly afterwards as he felt his knuckles split open against the stone. He muttered to himself as he rubbed his hand, turning around to slide down the wall to the floor in defeat.

"No good will come of you injuring yourself, friend," came a lighthearted voice from the other side of the wall, "you should save all the strength you've got. They only fed you once a day here."

"Thanks for the tip," Erik said dryly, rolling his eyes as he blew on his knuckles.

"Glad to be of service. You got a name?" the voice prompted.

"Monsieur," Erik stated, rather annoyed, "if you don't mind, I'm really not a talkative man to begin with and frankly, tonight has not been my night."

The voice on the other side of the wall quieted down, and Erik buried his face in his hands, running his right one down the ridges of his deformity, feeling the prominent bumps and divets of it with his fingertips. During his entry search, the guards had stripped him naked, saving his mask for last. When they'd finally removed it they'd all recoiled in horrified revulsion, one turning away from him as if looking into his eyes could turn a man to stone. Then they'd tossed a worn grey ensemble his way and shoved him into the next room, where he'd been branded with a tattoo on his left arm, a number by which the prison could identify him by as well as a tag that, should he ever go free, let those he surrounded himself with know that he'd once been a criminal.

The marksman himself had enjoyed every minute of running that hot tattoo needle against Erik's skin. He'd strapped Erik's arm down to his worktable with great force, palm up, and tied his other one behind his back. Then he'd stared at Erik for a good long minute, studying the face Erik had tried so hard to turn away from that beady, scrutinizing gaze. A dark curl of lip had flashed on the man's face then as he'd begun to work. The pain had been excruciating, and Erik had nearly bit through his lip at the sharp dragging motion that tore at his arm. He hadn't screamed once though. He'd refused to give the marksman that sick satisfaction he so clearly got off on. No, Erik hadn't flinched one single inch as he'd watched thin trails of blood drip down his forearm onto the already stained tabletop. That had seemed to discourage the marksman greatly, while at the same time providing him a challenge. Multiple times the man then ran his needle back up, over skin he had already marked, hoping to get the reaction he craved. Erik had known worse torture though, and held his own as the man finished his macabre work and glared, setting the instrument down on the table.

"Freak," the man had muttered, turning to yell at the guards to remove Erik from his sight.

Erik hadn't even bothered to look down at his now scarred arm until he'd been tossed into his cell. It was only then that he'd crossed over to the back wall of his small confinement space to stand beneath the barred window and hold up his sore forearm into the light of the moon to examine it. When he had he'd sneered in disgust, tracing the three numbers on his forearm with his free hand, feeling his eyes glaze over as he inadvertently brushed off flakes of dried blood and scabbed skin. How cruel life was to him, to never let him forget just who he was.

The three sixes that had been tattoo'd on his arm were written in jet black ink, very visible in contrast to his stark, pale skin, inscribed in rather large print so that it was clear to read from across the room. The joke may have seemed humorous to the marksman, but for Erik it was simply salt in the wound of all that had happened. For no matter how hard he had tried to turn his life around, how much he had strived for normalcy, he was once again refused the peace he yearned for. Once again labeled a child of devil. The man hadn't even known what Erik had been imprisoned for, yet one look at his face and he'd assumed him to be a creature of Hell.

"So what did you do to end up in here, anyways?" the voice from the next cell asked, sounding bored.

Erik lighted banged the back of his head against his cell wall, closing his eyes as he clenched his teeth. He thought that maybe if he spoke no reply this time then maybe the man next door would perhaps cease his futile ramblings indefinitely. As it was though, Erik's silence only prompted him to keep speaking.

"It's fine if you don't want to speak with me," the man continued, almost sounding disappointed, "I get it. I felt the same when they first brought me here. To be honest though, a little conversation would help me out a lot. I'm frightened of what the morning brings and wish to distract myself as much as I can tonight."

"And what, dare I ask, does the morning bring for you monsieur?" Erik asked, exacerbated.

"Well, you see, tomorrow is the day I die," the man stated simply.

Erik's eyes flew open and he furrowed his brow. Had he heard this man correctly? Was his next door neighbor a man condemned to death?

"Sorry, I know that's a little heavy coming from someone you just met." He laughed flatly and without humor, then continued to speak. "None of us here want to think about the inevitable at first, but She comes for all of us eventually. Barely anyone here goes free after their trial. Only aristocracy seems to escape unscathed. Do you happen to have such luck, my friend? Are you high-born?"

"No," Erik replied, "in fact, quite the opposite. I am merely a musician."

"And I a teller," the man stated proudly. "Funny, isn't it? For men like you and I to end up in a place like this? You'd think our lives would be of the utmost boring variety."

"To be honest I wish mine was," Erik admitted, "I've longed for the mundane my entire existence. It's just always been out of reach until recently."

"And then you went and screwed it all up," the man joked humorlessly.

"No," Erik snapped, "I did nothing of the sort! I was framed for murder, imprisoned under rashly false pretenses. But...as you were so keen to point out before, you and I are not men of nobility. Our words mean nothing when spoken to the masses, and so here I'll rot."

"I feel bad for you then. Really, I do. To be locked up for something you didn't do is the worst deal of cards. At least I deserve my sentence. You see, I did kill a man." The man snorted. "I'll be damned if the bastard didn't deserve it though."

"What did he do?" Erik asked warily, not quite sure if he wanted to know the reason behind a purposeful manslaughter.

The man on the other side of the wall was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again Erik could hear a crippling sadness laced into his voice.

"It was a few weeks ago. I came home late from work that day. That happens from time to time in my profession. Only that night something seemed wrong as I approached my home. It had been raining and the house was dark as a tomb. My daughter is sixteen years old you see, so for the lamps in our house to be off, even at a late hour, is quite unusual. For she usually stays up hours past curfew, sewing and singing to herself in her room. She'll stay up all night there, stitching the most beautiful things..." He ventured off for a moment, probably lost in a happier memory. "Anyways, I went to open our front door that night and it swung open all of its own accord, the lock broken off its hinge. I was so scared for my little Yvette then, but I didn't dare make a sound. Instead I crept into the kitchen and, as quietly as I could, grabbed the pistol I keep behind the medicine cabinet. My hands were shaking so badly. I remember that, because even though I'd owned that gun for years I'd never dreamt of actually having to fire it. I did though. That night I shot a man dead. I shot him twice in fact, once through the stomach and then once again through the chest. He fell straight forward, dead as a door nail at my boots."

"He'd robbed you," Erik stated, an assumption and a question all at once.

"I wish that was all he had done," was all the man replied, distantly.

Erik knew the rest of the man's story without ever having to ask. His stomach twisted in disgust. It seemed none of Paris' young women were safe these days.

"I'm terribly sorry," was all Erik could think to say, "I don't believe you should have to die for delivering rightful justice."

"Aye, but I should," the man lamented, "A better Christian would've shot to disarm that man. Not kill him."

"I'm sure God will forgive you," Erik said, though he very much doubted in God's existence by now.

Erik heard a shuffling from the other side of the wall then. The man next door seemed to be walking around. Perhaps pacing?

"You know even if He doesn't, even if I'm damned to Hell for what I did, I wouldn't hesitate to act just the same if given a second chance." The man's words were firm, he meant every word of them. "Because at least this way I know my daughter will never be harmed by that man again. I'll be giving my life for her to have some sense of peace and closure. That's worth it to me."

"That's quite brave of you to say," Erik noted, impressed with the man's character.

"I suspect any father would feel the same way."

"I wouldn't know," Erik admitted. He absentmindedly twisted his hands together, thinking about the dreams he'd once had of him and Christine starting a family. Dreams that all seemed in vain now.

"No children?" the man asked.

"No."

"A wife?"

Erik's eyes watered, picturing his beautiful fiance...his angel, the light of his life. How he wished he could call her his wife. How he'd dreamt countless times of seeing her in a white gown, walking down the aisle towards him with that sweet smile of hers. He prayed she was safe.

"A fiancée," Erik said with tears in his eyes, "I was arrested less than an hour after she accepted my proposal." He stared off at nothing as he swallowed hard.  
"We never even got the chance to celebrate it."

"Damn, son. That's rotten luck. I'm sorry to hear that. You seem a good man. I'm sure she was lucky to have you."

Erik chuckled. "No, not by far. In fact, it was I who was lucky to have her. She's far better a woman than I could ever dream to call my own. She's radiant, talented, and kind of heart. I'm positive she could've found a great number of men far more suitable to call her future husband. Yet somehow, by some miracle, she chose me. And for a moment, I believe we were truly happy together."

"You have a lot of love for this woman," the man observed, "I hope you get to see her again, my friend. I truly do."

Erik couldn't help but feel a sense of kinship towards the man on the other side of his cell wall. They were both wrongfully condemned, both wanting nothing more then the safety and happiness of those they loved. It was a pity he had to die. The world would be a darker place without men like him in it. Erik was proud to say that he in return also came to think of this man as his friend after the span of those few passing moments.

"Erik Destler," he said quietly, after a thick pause had gathered in the air.

"Pardon, monsieur?"

"My name..." he repeated, "is Erik."

"Thomas Comtois," the voice replied, "a pleasure to have met you."

Faint sunlight began to streak through the window bars of Erik's cell, casting shadows on his pant leg. The dark clouds had parted for the sunrise, though there was no telling how long that clear sky would last before the snowfall began once more. Erik stood up and walked over to the window, placing both his hands around the cold bars. He was on the ground level of the prison, he realized. A large courtyard was nestled quietly before his eyes. Its grass was still green, unlike the dying grass around the opera house, and would have been peaceful to look at had Lady Vengeance herself not been the main attraction of the space. Yet there She was, standing proud and tall, her blade ominously shining in the morning light, casting a blinding glare in his direction.

A rustling of keys echoed from outside the end of the prison wing, followed by the horrendous screeching of heavy iron doors as they swung ajar. Erik heard a far off cell being opened and listened as a man cried out, his screams then growing more and more distant before fading away completely. It was far too early in the morning for anyone to go to trial though. Erik felt himself grow uneasy at what that meant.

"Though like all pleasures, this one seems to be fleeting," Thomas said, reserved and solemn, "and seems the time has come that I must say goodbye to you, monsieur Destler. I pray one day we meet again, good man, though hopefully no time soon."

"Thomas, what do you mean...?"

Erik ceased talking as he heard footsteps approaching their end of the hall. He heard Thomas' cell swing open, but with his new friend there was no screaming like there had been with the other man. No fighting. Instead all Erik heard was the calm footsteps of a man far stronger than those surrounding him. A man who had come to accept his fate. One who had found peace in his life's choices.

As the door to their ward slammed shut, Erik couldn't help but begin to tremble as he turned back to face the courtyard. A man in all black and a priest now stood side by side beside the guillotine, the man in black standing erect and authoritative while the priest hung his head is solace. Prisoners started pouring out from the side of the building. Though Erik didn't know his face, he knew Thomas to be among that group.

He couldn't force himself to look away.

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* * *

 **So I had to do a bit of research for this chapter because, like Mme. Giry, I also have next to no knowledge on Victorian Parisian law. La Sante was indeed a real prison though, one that opened in 1867. So in this fic it still would have been fairly new. Prisoners were still being tattoo'd in this time period (JAVERT VOICE: 24601!) but the guillotine at this prison was not actually erected until 1909. Before that, they did executions elsewhere. For the sake of this story however, it came with the construction of the building. ;)**

 **Another fun fact - France was still executing prisoners by guillotine far longer then I originally thought. Their last beheading was in 1977. Some of you were probably alive for that. I find that crazyyyyy.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	32. Madame Guillotine

Madame Guillotine

1871

 _Erik_

Erik had never been one to fear death before. In fact, there were times in his youth when he'd prayed for it with all his heart, welcoming the idea of that dark, sweet release with bruised but very open arms. As he watched the priest in the prison courtyard step forward though, speaking a sorrowful prayer from a tattered bible, he realized just how badly he wanted to live now. Just how much he needed to. Back when he was nothing more than a sideshow oddity he'd felt no reason to go on. It had seemed pointless to him, to a continue a life consisting of nothing more than ridicule and torture. But now things were different. Fate had redesigned him. Given him a chance to step into the sunlight and begin anew. He couldn't lose that now. Couldn't lose his Christine and the life they wished to build together. Not this way. If his trial ended the way he now feared it would, he swore to himself he would fight to the end, if only for her.

A crowd had begun to gather towards the edge of the courtyard, seeming to contain Parisians of all ages and stature. Filthy street children, women dressed in regal pastels, and businessmen alike had all come together to watch the morning beheadings. They stood, these awaiting specters, in anticipation, impatient as if they were simply waiting a sporting event or matinee play to begin. A few laughed and conversed quietly amongnst themselves, gossiping about the prisoners by the looks of things. Erik was profoundly horrified at their actions. Those inhuman onlookers seemed to view this dark morning as they would any other leisure of escape to their day to day tribulations, all the while the prisoners on death row, just a few feet away, silently cried. Erik was sickened. He didn't see how anyone could find enjoyment in such a disgusting spectacle, yet some of the crowd looked as if this were the highlight of their year. Erik made a mental note, should he ever be free, to make sure he and Christine never came within sight of this courtyard from the street. His Christine was a strong woman, yes, but there were some things even she couldn't stomach.

Erik's entire prison wing seemed to fall silent simultaneously as the man in black reached into the group of prisoners and plucked forward his first victim. Erik was sure everyone on his wall stood just the same as he did in that moment, faces pressed to their window bars and legs shaking just below the knees. The man the executioner had selected was short in stature, with long black hair and skinny arms. He was thrown across the bed of Lady Vengeance as the priest turned away in disgust, shutting his bible with a long, weary sigh.

"Prisoner 534...arsonist," the man in black stated loudly to the crowd.

 _Slice._

It was a quick way to go. One moment you were there, the next you simply weren't. Erik found it nauseating to watch. The decapitation sprayed a thick stream of blood towards the earth, and the crowd began to cheer in response as the man's head rolled sideways into a basket, looking from afar to be no more than a child's ball as it rolled. The man's body was simply heaved to the side then, in what would only be the beginning of a morbid stack of discarded flesh. It almost made the prisoners condemned seem less human, that motion of their bodies being tossed aside so carelessly. Was that how the man in black had to look at them? As things instead of people? How else could he sleep at night, knowing he'd killed so many?

The next man chosen was oddly petite in shape, as if he hadn't eaten a decent meal in years. He was even skinnier than Erik had been as a teenager, his legs looking as if they may snap under the weight of his body. His hair was a dull flaxen blonde that had been cut off jaggedly, nearly to the root of his scalp, and his narrow face had prominent cheekbones, sharp and hollow. As the man in black went to force him onto the bed of the guillotine he cried out in a last pitch of fear, flailing wildly in all directions as he screamed up towards the sky. The scream emitted was not a man's cry though. Instead it was high-pitched, ringing like a bell, catching the attention of all around. Erik could only watch in pity as the man in black grabbed the back of the prisoner's shirt, pulling it taunt to restrict movement. As he did so, the prisoner's petite frame was visible through the dark fabric, and the man was then no longer a man, but clearly a young woman.

"Prisoner 321...thief."

The woman continued screaming the entire time she was forced down onto the bed, only ceasing her tormented wails when the guillotine's blade came crashing down. As her severed head lazily dropped down into the basket a single voice in the crowd cried out in anguish; all the while the rest of the crowd cheered once more, the sounds of their malicious jubilee haunting the square.

The bile in Erik's stomach rose up into his throat as he pictured what that poor woman's life must have been like for her to end up in a place like this. With how thin she was - _had been -_ he assumed her thievery to be nothing more than food stolen in the dead of night. Perhaps she'd had children to feed, huddled together somewhere in the small shack of a home her husband had abandoned them in. Erik prayed that wasn't the case. He didn't like to think of children left alone in this world. A child needed a mother to watch over them. To give them softness in their hearts and kindness in their words. Even though his own mother had been a monster who'd abandoned him, a part of him still wished he could see her again, to know the true reason she'd given up on him so young. This now deceased mother before him probably would've given anything to see her children again. Yet his had simply discarded him.

At least Erik had met his mother, even if the memories of her were harsh and faint. Christine had never known hers, Mme. Daae having died in childbirth. Erik tried to picture what Mareena would have been like back in the day. Adelaide had once told him that Christine looked so much like her, barely showing any resemblance to her father. Erik pictured an older version of his angel, her dark curls pinned up atop her head, the edges of her dark eyes worn with lines but still soft. She would've been beautiful just like Christine, inside and out. Erik only wished she had survived.

He could only imagine how different their lives would have been if she had never died. Christine would have had a joyful childhood, one spent with family, instead of the dark one she'd been forced to face alone. Alone being a relative term, of course. Erik supposed she'd had the Giry's and himself, but that was different than true family. The way the Madame had held her as a child had been distant. Even being a mother herself, Adelaide had never been one for outwardly affectionate gestures. Mareena would've held Christine when she'd cried though. She would've been like Annie Larson, always attentive.

He thought of the way his friend's wife held her daughters, with such affection and adoration glowing in her eyes. Motherhood was so befitting a woman such as her. She was patient and sweet, with lots of love in her heart to share. Christine was the same way, though as his minutes in the prison dragged on Erik's hope for their future dwindled more and more. He'd once fantasized about the day Christine would hold a giggling bundle in her arms, smiling up at him with pride as she sang sweet lullabies. Now though all he could picture was Christine dressed in black; a widow in mourning.

One by one the rest of the prisoners made their way up to the guillotine. Thieves, kidnappers, traitors, and rapists alike met their end of days beneath justice Herself. By the time the sun had disappeared behind dark clouds once more, there was only one man left standing, and Erik immediately knew him to be Thomas, for the man in black had yet to name a single alleged murderer yet, _alleged_ being the prominent term in Erik's mind.

Erik watched as Thomas whispered something to the priest as he passed by, who in return nodded his head and rested his palm upon Thomas' forehead, speaking one final prayer softly, only to him. Thomas smiled at that last gift, perhaps knowing then that God would grant him the chance to justify himself when he came before the gates of judgement. His newfound friend looked at peace then, walking himself over without assistance to the blade that now dripped with dark red blood as it was hoisted back up into the air. Thomas turned slightly as he stood before the pedestal, and Erik might have missed the notion had he blinked, and looked over towards the prison. Though Erik didn't think Thomas could see him from where he stood, he assumed his friend probably suspected he would be watching. He nodded curtly, once, and stepped up, resting his head contently on the Death's bed.

"Prisoner 608...murderer."

Erik felt his eyes watering up, feeling helpless as the great razor loomed overtop the innocent man. Thomas was no more guilty of murder than he himself. For the man in black to say otherwise was slander. No, Thomas was no killer in Erik's eyes. He was merely a father. A bank teller who'd had unfortunate events guide his hands to action. Erik gripped the bars of his cell window tightly as the executioner took hold of his level with cruel and purposeful slowness, all for the sake of the crowd's amusement. Erik's knuckles nearly burst through his skin as a single tear slipped down his malformed cheek. He didn't breathe a single breath then as he watched his newest friend leave this plain of existence, ascending to the next.

When it was finally over and the crowd had dispersed, Erik felt himself stagger backwards, falling to the floor. He stayed there a good long while, contemplating his mortality, seeing again and again the blade of Lady Vengeance as She stole the lives of the innocent. He tried to picture Christine, tried to imagine her sweet smile and glimmering eyes, but he found he wasn't able to. He couldn't conjure up any comforting memories of her in that moment. The sight of the blood that still watered the grass outside was still too fresh in his mind, the stack of headless bodies still strewn out ominously in the field, waiting to be collected by the undertaker. He was trapped in his own head then, far beyond reach. When the images finally surpassed, after what seemed like hours, he found himself shaking, pulling himself up only to sit back down against the wall Thomas no longer spoke to him through. He then did something he'd never done before.

He prayed.

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	33. God Works in Mysterious Ways

God Works in Mysterious Ways

1871

 _Christine_

There was no pain in the place Christine found herself wandering through. No judgement nor betrayal. The heartache inside of her had died, replaced by a feeling of wholesomeness she couldn't describe. At this point she couldn't even recall what had caused her such grieving, only that now it was over and she was at peace, resting soundly. Her mind at ease, she felt herself floating, a weightless feeling about her body as she detached from gravity, a lull in time as she drifted effortlessly through an unknown plane. There were colors dancing before her that her eyes had never seen before, and somewhere in the distance she could have sworn she heard a violin playing a gentle tune, a melody she fainting recognized but couldn't name. All was still, and all was well.

"Christine? Can you hear me?"

Christine looked about, broken from her trance, hearing the faint sounds of the Madame calling her name. She seemed so far away, her raspy voice sounding as if it were trapped behind a door. Christine tried to call out to her, to ask where she was, but no sound left her throat as she opened her lips to speak. Her hand floated up towards her mouth, and then she traced her fingertips over her face. Her cheeks felt cold, like solid ice. She shivered then, not knowing if the sensation was caused by the touch of her chilled skin or the sudden fear that crawled down her spine.

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* * *

"They're stargazer lilies...my mother used to bring them to me when I was unwell."

Christine didn't know how long it had been since she'd last heard someone speak. Maybe it had been years, or perhaps only hours, but she was sure in that moment that she'd heard Annie's voice. Was the doctor's wife also with the Madame, wherever she was? Christine looked at her surroundings, trying to focus her eyes on the haze that surrounded her. Far to her right she could now see a bright white light she hadn't noticed before. It seemed inviting, as if it were calling to her. She tried to reach for it, but found she could no longer move. She could only stay, trapped in her mind, unable to cry out or go to the ones she loved as she continued hearing their distant voices.

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* * *

"Christine, I'm so sorry. I should have stayed with you. I never should have left you alone!"

Christine silently begged Meg not to cry. It had been hours now and the poor ballerina sounded as if she were falling to pieces with her wrongfully placed guilt. Christine wished she could hold her friend and tell her that things were alright. That although she was frightened she was safe for the time being. She'd tried desperately for hours now to reach out to her, to find her, but the effort was to no avail and only exhausted her more. She didn't want to sleep though. She feared if she closed her eyes now Meg's voice would disappear; and who knew when she'd hear her again, if she ever did.

Feeling determined, Christine struggled again to move her legs, her arms, anything, but her limbs didn't move the way she willed them to in her mind. They simply rested, at her side, in the air, limp. Still, Christine tried again and again, fighting her exhaustion. She knew she had to fight hard, to break free of whatever curse it was that held her frozen. Perhaps this was all a challenge, and she had to prove herself to be freed. It took all she had but after a moment she finally felt herself flex her fingertips.

"Dr. Larson! Dr. Larson - get in here!" she heard Meg cry.

Christine could hear shuffling as a door somewhere burst open, the sound loud as a gunshot. Then she felt a great pain running down her chest, though no one seemed to be touching her. Her face twisted and moved to either side, her hands moving freely then, flying to her sternum as the sensation continued. She found she could mumble, and begged incoherently for whatever this pain was to go away.

"Responsive to painful stimuli," the doctor confirmed, "Meg, go and fetch Anthony. I'll get your mother."

After Dr. Larson spoke those words there was so much noise, and yet no noise at all. The world around Christine blurred as that distant sound of the violin grew closer and closer. She recognized the melody then. It was a lullaby, one her father had written her when she was little. One she had long since forgotten but now could now remember clear as day. Her heartache once more returned as she searched desperately through the surrounding mist for her father. For he had to be close by if his music was near. That song, _their_ song, it sounded as if it were right behind her now, somewhere close but unseen. She suddenly felt a hand fall upon her shoulder, causing her to jump in startled surprise. How long had she been alone here? Touch seemed so foreign to her.

"Christine, relax my child! It's only me."

That voice. No...it couldn't be. But it was. Christine turned slowly, seeing a flash of messy blonde hair and a warm smile greeting her. There her father stood, dressed in the same white blouse he'd died in. Only the blouse was no longer stained, but fresh pressed, and his eyes were no longer sunken from illness but wide and bright, blue as the summer sky. It was odd to her, to see him at the age he'd died at. She had aged, yet he had not. He was still a twenty-eight year old man, looking so young. So full of hopes and dreams.

"Papa," Christine cried, finally finding her voice again, though it came out quiet as a whisper, "is that really you? Wh-where are we?"

Her father sighed, the glow of his smile fading as his shoulders fell. "No where of consequence, my dear Christine. At least not for you...not yet. You still have a lot of life to live, Lotte. In many years perhaps we'll see it each other again, but today I've come to take you back."

"Back where? No, papa, I wish to stay with you!" She felt tears streaming down her face. "You have been lost to me for so many years now! Please, you can't leave me again!"

"I'm sorry to upset you Christine, but you cannot stay here," he said, almost regretfully, "as much as your mother and I would love to spend more time with you, doing such would be selfish."

"Mother?" Christine was bewildered. "Mother is here? Oh Papa please, let me see her! You must let me meet her!"

"I'm sorry Christine...truly, I am." He raised his hand and gently held her cheek in his palm. "But this is where we say goodbye."

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* * *

Christine awoke in a gasp, drenched in sweat. Her entire body ached, feeling stiff as a board as if she hadn't moved in weeks. Her hands and feet were wrapped in bandages and her body was covered in thick layers of blankets. She felt hot and flustered as she moved to kick them away. As she did though, her joints screamed in protest, and she fell back withering in pain to the sheets of the bed she found herself in. Taking a moment to stretch slowly, she looked around in confusion. The room around her was stark white, eerie almost, void completely of color. It was also simple, with just one closet and window, three chairs, and a single wooden door. The side table next to her bed had a half-empty glass of water on it, containing a small vase with three wilting lilies leaning over its rim. Where was she?

"Christine! Oh praise God, you're finally awake!"

Christine was so dazed she hadn't even heard the door opening. Meg came to her side at once, dropping to her knees beside Christine's bed and throwing her arms around her neck. The gesture caused Christine pain, but she said nothing, simply closing her eyes, grateful to have her friend so near. When she pulled away, Meg's eyes were full of tears as she brushed aside Christine's hair from her face.

"I thought I'd lost you, Christine! Don't you ever scare me like that again!" she cried.

Meg's voice was laced with worry, and also fear. It was then that Christine remembered venturing out into the night after Erik's arrest. The memories came to her so suddenly her head began to pound. She remembered the icy chill that had befallen her, and vaguely remembered the full moon looming overhead.

"Meg...how long have I been here?" Christine asked with apprehension.

"Three days," replied a deeper voice from the doorway. Christine looked up to see Dr. Larson looking at her as if she were something peculiar to be studied. He pushed his glasses further up his nose with one finger, his other hand deep in his suit pocket as he leaned against the door frame and continued to stare. That look made her uncomfortable, but she supposed it was only with medical curiosity that he speculated her in such a way. She didn't think another thought about it though as Mme. Giry brushed by him.

"Oh, my darling Christine," the Madame wept, scurrying into the room in a rush, "I'm so sorry, child. I never should have said what I did! Please forgive me. I have done nothing but blame myself for this."

Christine looked up at her. The woman looked like she hadn't slept in days. "There's nothing to forgive, Madame. You were right before. Really, it it I who should be sorry to you." She paused, blinking away the rest of the haze from her eyes. "But none of that matters right now. Where is Erik? Has he been released yet? Why...why is he not here with me, with everyone else?"

The room grew deathly silent, so much so that Christine swore she could hear dust falling in the foreground. Dr. Larson excused himself with a forced cough, stopping Anthony from entering the room and walking out into the hall, hushed whispers passed between the two of them. Meg looked frantically towards her mother, then back at Christine, who heaved herself upright in the hospital bed, wincing at the pain of pressing her palms into the mattress. The Madame continued to weep, but silently now, as if at a loss for the words she needed to say.

"M-madame?" Christine asked again, her voice shaky and uncertain, "Madame...where is Erik?"

Tears streamed down Mme. Giry's cheeks and her lower lip quivered. She took one of Christine's hands in hers gently, the same way she had when Christine had been a child. She'd held her hand just the same to tell her her father had passed. Christine went wide-eyed at the gesture, stricken with fear and feeling both faint and nauseous.

"Where is he!" she demanded loudly, tears now escaping her own eyes. Mme. Giry flinched back from her harsh tone.

Meg reached forward, a chain in her hand. On that chain swung a small, glistening ring, shimmering brightly in the sunlight that streamed in from the window. Mme. Giry let go of Christine's hand and took the chain from her daughter, studying it closely with sad eyes. Christine recognized it to be her engagement ring, and stared as it as it were cursed, just the same as her earrings had been. The Madame held it out for her to take, and Christine reached for it, the bandages on her hand growing tight as she flexed her fingers to hold the diamond in her palm.

"Christine, his trial was yesterday," Mme. Giry told her solemnly, "they found him guilty."

Christine dropped her ring, hearing it bounce from the bed to the floor, where it rolled away until it hit the wall. She was standing then, too quickly, her head spinning, as she grabbed the sides of the Madame's arms hysterically.

"You lie! You're lying!" she cried out, "Please, tell me it isn't so! Meg, this can't be true! Tell me it isn't true!"

She turned towards her dearest friend, who simply looked down at the floor with sorrowful eyes. When she turned back to the Madame, the look upon her face was one of hopelessness. Christine found herself sinking to the floor then, clutching the Madame's skirt in her fists, crying into the dark fabric. Her adopted mother wrapped her arms around her shoulders and held her close.

"I'm so sorry Christine," she whispered through her tears, "but there's nothing we can do for him now."

Christine was livid. Her tears of sorrow quickly turned to tears of anger as she stood up and frantically paced the room. The bandages on her feet become loose and she paused to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, unwinding the fabric in precise movements. When the last of the bandages were tossed aside she studied her feet, unimpressed by the damage the snow had caused. They were the same mangled ballerina's feet she'd always had, only now much redder, with fading blisters. Nothing too serious though. Nothing hindering.

"I need my clothes," she stated simply, looking up at Meg while she started undoing the bandages on her hands next. Though they were sore, they were no worse off than her feet. The blisters from the frostbite looked as though they'd been drained days ago, and were now just small raised skin, barely noticeable unless you looked closely, though still painful. Meg left the room with urgency in response to Christine's tone, quickly returning with a large bundle in her arms. Not quite caring that the Girys were in the room, Christine stripped out of her hospital gown and pulled on her navy wool skirt and a white blouse from the bundle (Christine assumed that particular article of clothing to be Meg's, since she didn't recognize it). Meg had also brought Christine her leather riding boots, which she was grateful for since she assumed there was still snow outside.

"Christine, you are still not well. Please, lie back down," Mme. Giry pleaded.

Christine ignored her and laced her boots carefully, making sure the knots were secure. She then stood up, wobbling slightly, steadying herself by grabbing hold of the bed post.

"What is it you think you are doing?" Mme. Giry pressed, stepping towards her and gently pushing her back down to sit on the bed. Christine's tears had stopped, and she now felt herself wearing a cold and distant expression that was surely scaring the woman who had raised her half to death. She didn't care though. She was determined to act.

"We have to help him, madame," Christine said with urgency, "we have to find out who really killed Buquet, and we have to hurry. We're wasting time just sitting around here!"

"Child, listen to yourself!" Mme. Giry scoffed. "What you want to do is hopeless! Buquet was hated by many, loved by next to none. There is a plethora of men who might have wished him dead, and surely all of Paris knew of Erik's hatred for him. _Anyone_ could have framed him. If the police couldn't find a lead what makes you think you can?"

"The police didn't care enough to look, madame! That's the difference! The police probably took one look at Erik's face and thought him a monster already condemned. You know that as well as I do!" Christine sneered.

Mme. Giry nodded in solemn agreement as Christine once more stood up. "Meg, is my cloak here somewhere?"

Meg crossed over to the thin closet on the side of the room and opened its creaky door, pushing aside her forest green cloak to pull forth Christine's black one. The fabric was heavy as Christine took it from her and tied it around her neck, bringing it forward over her shoulders.

"Even if you could find a lead Christine, we'd never find the man responsible in time! Erik's execution is set for the morning," Mme. Giry explained.

The morning? Christine froze, turning to stare out the window. The sun was already falling in the sky, the time certainly late in the afternoon. She had so little time...Erik had so little time. What could she do to save him? She couldn't just let him die. She refused to see that as an option. She gripped the edges of her cloak tightly, feeling as though she may faint. She looked down to see her ring still nestled against the baseboards on the far side of the room. With slow movements she stepped towards it, bending over and picking it up as if it were made of glass. She looked at the small diamonds, at the golden band her fiance had designed just for her. She felt her eyes watering up again as she clutched it tightly. Erik was too pure a soul, too wonderful an artist and lover to be lost to this world. He still had so much to give. His music needed him. _She_ needed him.

She brought the long chain up around her neck, fastening it. The ring fell between with a soft thud between her breasts, the cool metal resting on her still hot skin, an odd contrast in temperature. She smiled sorrowfully but hopefully, knowing his last gift to her rested overtop her heart, exactly where she needed his strength most right now. Courage intact though, she still couldn't shake the feeling that the Madame was right. That there was nothing they could do now.

"We need a miracle," Christine said distantly after a moment, feeling hopeless as she tried to come up with a plan.

No one else spoke for what felt like an eternity after that. Then, finally, Mme. Giry gave her an exasperated look.

"Why don't you go to church, child," she suggested, sounding worn, "there you can pray for God to be merciful. I'm afraid praying is the only thing left for us to do though. That's the only miracle we can hope for. "

"I can come with you," Meg offered quietly.

"No...I think it best I go alone," Meg said, one last tear falling from her eyes, "I need some time to myself. To process...all of this."

Mme. Giry nodded in sympathy. "I think that may be best. This will be hard on all of us, my dear, but I know coming to terms with what's to happen will be most difficult for you. We will return to the opera house. When you're ready to come home simply send for a carriage. I'll pay for it when you arrive. But before you go, please to and eat. It's been days Christine. Surely you don't feel yourself."

It was only after Mme. Giry mentioned it that Christine felt a sharp pain in her abdomen, her stomach trying to claw through her flesh to retrieve sustenance. She agreed, dejectedly, and the Madame left to ask one of the nurses in the hall for food for her. Christine could hear them talking as she made her way to the window once more, staring out at the city which was blanketed in fresh snowfall. The streets of France looked so at peace, so perfectly undisturbed. It was cruel and it mocked her, for surely the world should be in flames for how she felt inside. A world full of such cruelty should look like the Hell it really was, instead of masquerading as a glistening, white Heaven.

The nurse entered the room with a small tray of food. Christine sat on the bed and ate it, not really caring as to what it was or how it tasted. Mme. Giry didn't say another word to her, and Meg only placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered that she'd wait up for her return. Christine nodded at her without looking, grateful to know her friend would be there for her tonight. If nothing could be done to save Erik, she would surely need Meg around to keep her from doing anything rash. She'd already nearly died just at the prospect of losing him. Now, though she tried hard to deny it, she was certain there was little that could be done. Mme. Giry had been right, all that was left to do was pray.

Christine pushed the tray aside and stood up, walking out into the hall. She could feel the nurses she passed staring at her with judgmental eyes. After days of being bedridden Christine didn't even want to know what her face and hair looked like. Not that it mattered. Who was she trying to impress, anyways? No one, that's who. She made her way towards the main desk, signing herself out. The receptionist asked if she needed a carriage but Christine declined. This hospital was in the heart of Paris, which meant Notre-Dame herself was only blocks away.

The air outside was as bitterly cold as the night she'd nearly died, and this time Christine was not numb to its sharpness. This time the very air she breathed chilled her to the core, making her shudder violently. Though the sun was visible, clouds were still heavy in the sky. She prayed the snow would cease.

Notre-Dame was visible from where she stood, her pillars taller than any other structure's in the city. She started walking towards her, feeling the crunch of ice and snow beneath her feet as she went. The entrance to the cathedral was only three blocks away. The hospital had probably been build close to the cathedral on purpose, she supposed, so that families could pray for their loved ones' recoveries.

Christine pushed forward the momentous doors to the cathedral, stepping inside. The church was silent as a tomb where she'd entered. The only thing greeting her were statues, silent as death and looming menacingly. She stepped forward cautiously, feeling almost unworthy of being in such a grand place. Notre-Dame was truly God's house, one of the grandest structures ever built in His name. It had stood proud and tall for hundreds of years now, and Christine knew it would still stand hundreds of years after she was long gone. Thousands of rainbows danced upon the stone floors, reflected from the beautiful stained glass that made up most of it's walls. It was almost too beautiful, and Christine found fresh tears in her eyes as she admired it all.

Entering the main part of the church, Christine noticed only a few other people present in the pews. A young man was near the back of the rows, so deep in prayer that he almost appeared to be asleep, while an older woman with a black veil was on her knees at the very front of the church, holding in her hands a tiny piece of cloth as she whispered words in a language Christine didn't recognize. The others didn't catch her eye much as she made her way down the aisles, stopping near the middle, dropping to one knee to make the sign of the cross before entering.

As she knelt at the pew she found she didn't know how to ask for a miracle. How did one even begin to make such a large request? It seemed almost too much to ask for. She stared silently up at the alter. Nestled behind it was the cathedrals's organ, one of, or perhaps _the_ largest instrument of its kind in the world. She looked over the thousands of silver pipes that stretched up towards the ceiling in awe. Whomever played such an instrument probably felt unearthly and unworthy every time they touched the keys. She pictured Erik playing it, the dazzling way he created such complex notes. Surely he could bring it a beauty it had never yet seen before. He of all people deserved a chance to play something as grand as that, at least once in his lifetime.

"Father? If you're here, I need your help," she finally whispered under her breath. In this time of hardship she once more wished he was still around. She needed him now more than ever. "Please, guide me, show me what I can do. Erik is a good man, and he does not deserve to die. I need a miracle, papa. I need a way to save his life. Give me something - anything. Please..."

Her voice died off as tears began to sting her eyes once more. She pictured her Erik, him smiling down at her, holding her tightly. She pictured him sitting at the piano in the orchestra pit, so lost in his music as his eyes blazed passionately. How could she go on without him? To never hear his voice again, that would be Hell. To never dance or sing with him again, death in all in tortures. He had so much compassion in his heart. All he'd ever wanted was a wife, a family, and a simple existence. Christine had begun dreaming of their wedding from the very first moment she'd seen him holding her ring. She'd dreamt of their kiss at the alter, of him playing the piano at the reception, their friends laughing and dancing around them in celebration. She'd dreamt of their first home together, picturing a large stone settlement nestled just outside the city. Erik's instruments would litter the many rooms, messy as his mind, and large beige curtains would blow about, the windows open to allow in the gentle summer breeze. Perhaps they would have children running around that home. Little dark haired boys or a girl with Erik's beautiful golden eyes.

Christine shook her head in despair, resting her forehead down in her clasped hands. Were all those dreams to be just that? Dreams? Things they would never get to experience? It wasn't fair, none of this was! Erik had suffered more than enough in his lifetime. He had been hurt countless times over and over again. He'd been beaten time and time again, abandoned to die, judged for his looks, and ridiculed for his very existence! Had be not _earned_ peace? Why did he still have to suffer more? She thought of him alone, locked away in the dark, dreading the morning, probably scared for his life and wishing she were there.

Christine prayed that he was safe at the moment. She couldn't imagine what life in prison was like. She assumed it was terribly lonely. She imagined her poor Erik starving, pacing about in his cell in that exasperated way he did when he was lost in thought. Even if by some miracle he did escape, if she could save him, he would certainly be changed by his time there. To be put back in a cage...it was probably bringing him back such painful memories. She wished she could hold him. She swore she could almost fell herself wrapped around his waist, clutching him tightly. She wanted him to know that she was there for him, that she would always find a way to fight for him. But how could she?

An hour or so had passed. Christine's knees ached and her blouse was stained with the tears that still fell slowly, almost as if in metronome. Her hands were still pressed together in prayer, though they now trembled, her forearms growing sore pressed into the wooden frame of the pew in front of her. By now evening had surely come, for she was alone, the other patrons having left long ago. The entire room had fallen silent, the only sound coming from the living quarters above where the priests, nuns, and bellkeeper lived. Christine slowly raised herself up from her kneeling position and sat in her pew dejectedly, looking around at the darkness that surrounded her. It seemed as though Notre-Dame herself could hear Christine's hollow heart as it beat weakly in her chest, and was reflecting the mood off each brick and stone.

Christine couldn't tell how long she sat there in the darkness, staring down at her folded hands, which rested in her lap in defeat. She knew a miracle had been too much to ask for, but it had been her last hope. It wouldn't come though. She accepted that and shrank deep into herself, trying to fight off the inevitable pain to come.

Faint footsteps could be heard entering the church. Christine didn't bother to look up. She assumed it onto to be a holy worker wondering the halls. The footsteps grew closer though, and Christine could see a figure walking towards her from the corner of her eye. As the figure entered her pew she glared up at him, disgust filling her. She had hoped to never see this man ever again after he'd been tossed from the opera house, yet there he stood, only a little ways away, his brown suit tailored perfectly to fit his frame, a sympathetic look upon his face.

"Goodness Lotte, you look positively dreadful," Raoul stated, looking down at her. Christine curled her lip. She didn't need to be told what she looked like. She knew she looked as though she'd just crawled off the streets. She didn't care in the least.

"If you've come to insult me you may as well leave, monsieur," Christine snapped, "I'm in no mood for your antics today."

Raoul sat next to her in response, keeping a respectable space between them. He dipped his head apologetically.

"I apologize, Christine. It was merely an observation. I meant no harm. I see that you are grieving. I heard about what's to happen, and I know how must feel."

"You know nothing of my pain!" Christine sneered loudly before remembering where she was. She dropped her voice back down to a harsh whisper. "Now leave me be, Raoul. Please. I need to be alone."

"If you needed to be alone you wouldn't have come here seeking God," he replied logically, "You're here seeking help. Help that I could offer you."

Christine turned towards the viscount, searching the man's eyes for deeper meaning. For surely he was not offering his help simply from the goodness of his heart. Christine wondered vaguely if he even had one. This man was not the Raoul from her childhood, who would help her kindly without demanding repayment. This was a man who invaded her privacy, threatened her beloved, and caused fights in desperation to sate his lust. No, she didn't trust him in the least, and she saw right through his pitying facade.

"What kind of help?" she asked quietly, apprehensively, turning back away from him to look once more at her hands. She couldn't stand to look in his eyes. His eyes were that of a snake's.

"I can see to it that Erik is freed. I can give him money and a way out of France. He could start over. England, Germany, or wherever he may please. He would be safe then, and would not die tomorrow as is planned." He leaned in closer to her. "But to offer this risks much on my part. I would need something in return, Lotte."

"What could you possibly want that you do not already possess?" she asked hesitantly.

"You."

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	34. The Viscountess

The Viscountess

1871

 _Christine_

It was a hollow victory. There was both a great joy and a great sadness inside of Christine's heart as the servant girl behind her laced her corset, humming a gentle tune under her breath as she worked. Christine grimaced inwardly with each tightening pull of the threads, but never once allowed her discomfort to surface. In fact, she showed no emotion at all as she was moved about the room, allowing herself to be prepped for her first dinner in Raoul's home. She simply held out her arms when told, lifted her hair when asked, and looked up when instructed to do so. When the servant girl finally finished her assigned duty she stepped back to admire her work, looking proud of herself. She then smiled at Christine, walking over to the far side of the bedroom to turn the full length ornate mirror towards her seated direction.

"Look how beautiful you look madame," the girl said kindly, seeming to only intend sincerity in her compliment.

Christine nodded, forcing a gentle smile to form in the corners of her mouth, all the while cringing inside at being called madame by someone only a year or two younger than herself. "Thank you, Breanne, truly. Let monsieur de Changy know I'll be down in just a few moments, would you?"

"As you wish, madame."

The girl bowed halfway at the waist and dismissed herself quickly, closing the door behind her as she went. Only when her footsteps disappeared down the hall did Christine stand and slowly make her way towards the mirror to see what she looked like. Stepping in front of it she gasped, not in wonderment but in pure shock. She hardly recognized the woman in the reflection meant to be herself, and she was sure most wouldn't unless they knew her well. The gown she wore was a dusty pink color, with gold accents sewn throughout its skirt, which was wider than any she'd ever worn before and at least twice as heavy. The corset matched it perfectly, decorated with swirling gold patterns up the sides to accentuate her petite figure, making her appear curvier than she actually was. She wasn't sure what sort of shoes the girl had placed upon her feet after she'd taken her boots away. All Christine knew was that they were heeled and had far too many laces (most of which she was positive had no function). She couldn't balance in them well, even just standing still, and wondered vaguely how she would make it down the stairs with such ridiculous footwear without falling to her death.

She reached her hand up to the back of her hair. It was sharp to the touch with the amount of pins wound into it, each one helping to shape the viciously tight updo of her curls that had been wound atop her head. She took a single pin out and stared down at its needle-like point, testing it with her fingertip. How she hated that small piece of metal with every fiber of her being. It was not too long ago that she'd sworn she would never wear hairpins again, not unless it were for a performance Erik was directing and he insisted upon the matter. Yet here she stood with more pins in her hair then she'd ever had to wear while portraying Elissa. She sighed, thinking back to herself in that white gown, those simple days, the ones where Erik would meet her backstage after each performance. If things had played out differently, she supposed they would be running scripts for Don Juan in this moment. Instead he was in prison, about to break every law in the book in an aided escape, and she was in Raoul's mansion, masquerading as a future viscountess to ensure he lived to see tomorrow. How quickly life twisted and turned from one's desired course. How suddenly you could float on high, only to capsize in less than a moment's time.

She supposed it may be quite some time before she returned to the stage to perform her beloved's opera with the way things were now. If she ever did at all. But no, she couldn't think like that now. If she worried about ifs and whens she could easily lose every ounce of courage that had driven her this far. She had to keep her head, had to be able to hold her own and think clearly. She threw the pin across the room in frustration, tossing away with it her pining for their music and the opera house, hearing the tiny ping of it as it hit the window and fell to the floor. She then smoothed out her ridiculously large dress and scanned the room for anything she could acquire to aide her later when she fled.

For she had no plans to stay put and play housewife with the viscount. No desire to be dressed up each day like an expensive doll for him to pose and play with as he saw fit. She'd told Meg long ago she had no desire to be a decorated needlepoint wife, and that fact had not changed. She was still a singer dammit, and she always would be! And as soon as she was sure Erik was safe she would escape and go to him. After all, her fiance was an extremely intelligent man. Surely he would somehow leave word for her as to where he'd gone.

She wondered where they would end up. Maybe Erik would flee to Germany, where he'd been born? Christine knew he spoke the language, but then again he probably didn't think of that country as his homeland. France had been his true home in the end, the opera house the only place he'd ever truly fit into society. It was there that he'd learned to create, to thrive, and to love. It was where they had met. Christine hoped one day his name would be cleared. Perhaps then they could return to Paris and make a home where they'd always planned to, finally coming full circle with their story.

The guest room Christine was in was very dark in color. It had dark wooden floors, dark painted walls, and a dark four-poster bed. As she gazed around she noted the only other furniture in the room to be a dresser, a wardrobe, and a small writing desk...all made of that same dark, dab wood. She scoffed, wondering who had designed such a depressing room. She ruffled through the drawers of the dresser, finding them full of nothing useful, the oak panels containing nothing except what appeared to be woman's undergarments. She picked up one particularly lacy set in horror, seeing it to be just her size. Holding down the bile in her throat she slammed the drawers hard with disgust and dug through the writing desk next, which to her disappointment contained only instruments for penmanship. She supposed maybe she could stick someone with a pen to aide her in her dangerous escape, but highly doubted the effectiveness of such an action unless she were willing to wait months for the ink poisoning to take effect. Letting out a frustrated groan, she paused to take a deep breath and turned to open the wardrobe.

Some of the accessories inside of it were for a woman, and it seemed a few men's items had also been left behind from the previous occupant of the room. Christine's eyes drifted over a leather belt that had been forgotten on the floor of the wardrobe. She leaned over and picked it up. The belt was smooth and cool to the touch, and she couldn't help but feel a tinge in her heart as she held it, the material reminding her of the gloves Erik had been wearing the last time she'd seen him. As she held it she choked back a sob and then gasped, an idea coming to her. She rushed back to the writing desk and used a pen to poke a hole down towards the end of the belt. Sitting on the edge of the bed she then lifted the great mass of her skirt's fabric and wrapped the leather around her thigh, tightening it short using the makeshift hole she'd made. When she was satisfied that it wouldn't fall down but wasn't too tight, she raised her head high and exited the guest room. Sure, she hadn't found anything resembling a defensive weapon, but now she had a holster for when she did. She smiled coldly. For the first time since she'd arrived at the mansion she finally felt as though she had gained the upper hand in the dangerous game she and Raoul were playing.

Christine prided herself on her acting abilities. She found it much easier to focus on descending the staircase if she pretended to once again be the royal wife of Hannibal instead of herself. Fully in character, she graciously trailed her fingertips down the banister of the stairs, taking each step steadily as she smiled with a sharp sweetness that cut through the air with a confidence she wished she herself possessed. Raoul was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a charcoal tailcoat and pressed black suit pants. Perhaps in another life the prideful look in his eyes would have been endearing to her. But that pride wasn't for her, she knew that, but because of her. That look was merely a reflection of the victory he believed he'd accomplished in taking her as a conquest. He gestured to the right and Christine followed him, crossing the marble floors of his foyer into a marvelously prepared dinning hall.

An extravagant mahogany table was the focal point of the room, its royal blue table runner adorned with ivory candles spaced every few feet along the lush fabric. Each side of the table was lined with portrait perfect plate settings. Christine had no doubt about the purity of the silver as it glistened in the candlelight. She knew it was every bit as pure as this moment wasn't.

Raoul placed a hand on the small of her back, a perfect gentleman, and led her to the farthest seat at the table. Though the gesture was innocent is still sent shivers up her spine, his silent demeanor unnerving. He pulled her chair out and helped her to sit. Sitting in the armchair was rather uncomfortable, her skirt taking up every inch of room on either side of her, making her feel even smaller than she already was as her faux confidence dwindled. Raoul proceeded to take his seat at the far end of the table and waved his hand up into the air. Almost immediately Christine saw Breanne and another servant, this one male, enter the room. Raoul spoke briefly with them and they left, reappearing with silver trays and fine wine only a moment later.

A large plate was placed before Christine, and she couldn't deny that she was starving as she watched steam arise from the porcelain. She gratefully ate the meat and vegetables before her, but only sipped her wine, not wanting to be intoxicated in a house only she and Raoul seemed to be occupying. Sipping was easy though, as this wine was much more bitter and dry than the wine she had drunken with Erik in what seemed like another life entirely.

Minutes passed in uncomfortable silence. Though Christine tried to focus solely on her food she could feel Raoul's eyes boring holes into her skin the entire time she ate. Eventually she looked up, only to find him staring, an almost smug smile on his satisfied face.

"You look much better than you did earlier, my dear," he said to her at last, his voice smooth like velvet.

"Thank you, monsieur," was all she replied, her voice quiet as she looked down at her plate once more.

"Christine please, call me Raoul," he insisted, "you used to when we were little and nothing has changed since then."

 _Except everything had changed_ , she thought bitterly. After their happy childhood days had ended her sweetheart had inherited quite the vast fortune, let it go straight to his head, and all but blackmailed her to be a bride to him. He might not have realized it, but inside she mourned the lose of her once good friend.

"I suppose," she muttered, "Raoul then, if that is what you wish."

Raoul smiled at conquering yet another small victory, and Christine hated herself for giving him that satisfaction.

"Do you like what you've seen so far, Lotte?" he continued, "the mansion I mean. I know I could afford something grander now, but I bought this place years ago off some of my first independent earrings. It was the best I could do then, and I'm still very proud of it. If it isn't to your liking though we can search for someplace else after we're married. Someplace with more bedrooms? More room for the children to play?"

Christine choked on the food in her mouth, dropping her knife and fork to the floor by accident, startled and frightened by his words. Hearing Raoul talk about having children with her was not quite the conversation starter she'd expected or wanted from him. It was just so...well, _forward_. The thought of carrying Raoul's children, the thought of the act needed to conceive children with him, made her sick to her stomach. Trying to hide her disgust she reached down to retrieve her cutlery. Her eyes went wide then as she realized the advantage presenting itself. In one quick fluid movement under the table, Christine moved the knife under her skirt and slid it into her makeshift holster. She then brought the fork back to the tabletop with a smile she hoped looked sincere, trying to calm the loud beating of her heart that seemed to echo throughout the room, hoping he couldn't tell from across the table what she had just done. To her relief though he simply continued to smile at her, his expression noted to have a touch of humor.

"Of course I didn't mean right away, Christine! Goodness, I do apologize if you took it that way." He laughed aloud, obviously rather amused by her reaction. "Surely a summer or two just to ourselves first. We could travel, if you'd like. I rather think you'd enjoy the likes of Spain." He paused, his lips forming a thin line. "Oh, and for future reference, because I know ladies' skirts are damnable things, if you drop something do let the servants pick it up for you. You needn't bother with trifling things like that ever again. Simply ask and you shall receive."

Christine glanced to her right to see Breanne standing silently against the wall just a few feet off from her. The girl was biting her lip and staring at her with narrowed eyes. Christine could barely breathe then as a wave of panic fell over her, realizing Breanne had just seen what she'd done. She knew then that the fight was over. The loyal servant would tell her master what had just transpired and Christine would be at his mercy, if he even had any after learning of her plans to betray him.

But instead of telling Raoul about the knife Breanne simply took a single, shaky breath and corrected her posture, remaining silent for the rest of the meal. Christine still couldn't calm herself though. Every passing minute she could fell the silver sharpness of the steak knife pressing against her skin, taunting her. Teasing her as if to ask her if she even had the guts to use a knife against another person. To be honest Christine didn't know if she could. Could she drive a knife into Raoul if things came to pass that way? She didn't know if she was strong enough, or if she had the stomach to do such a thing. She imagined him attempting a foul deed against her person, and her defensibly driving the end of her weapon into his body to stop him. She pictured the hot blood pouring from his wound as he fell to the floor and grew deathly silent. She shook her head. She couldn't stress about the what ifs now. She supposed when the time came she'd do what she had to, and resolved herself in knowing that doing so may be her only way to ever see Erik again. She knew she'd do anything to be in his arms again, even if that meant doing the unthinkable. She'd deal with the consequences of her actions later.

"You've been rather quiet," Raoul observed, standing up from his chair as he dropped his napkin to the table. Christine was glad to know he couldn't see himself dying in her mind's eye in that moment. "Perhaps since you're not in the mood for conversation than some other activities might be called for?"

He crossed the room with a look in his eyes Christine couldn't misread. Standing beside her, he offered his hand with a dashing, devilish smile. She took it, not knowing what else she could do. As she stood up she winced, feeling the tip of the knife nick the skin of her thigh. A small trail of warm blood slid down her leg. She whimpered slightly, forcing a strained smile as Raoul eyed her twisted face with sudden suspicion. Christine felt that suspicion mirrored straight back at the viscount, and couldn't help but raise question meant to distract him from whatever _activities_ it was he had in mind.

"Raoul, if I may, how will I know you will keep your end of our bargain?" she asked.

Raoul's suspicious gaze fell away as he stared at her in shock. It was as if questioning his character wounded him physically. "Why Lotte, you must think very little of me indeed to question whether or not I am a man of my word. Surely, I have treated you with nothing but respect since you've arrived. Do you still not trust me?"

"Not particularly, no." Christine stated shortly, the knife pressing against her thigh proving such.

"Well, as much as that hurts to hear luckily it does not sway my affections towards you. But if you insist that I prove my character in your eyes I shall take you to La Sante in the morning. There we can watch the filth of France fall together and you can see for yourself that your friend is not amongst those going to meet their maker."

"Fiance," Christine corrected firmly. She realized only a second after she had spoken that such a rebuttal would probably have consequences, but she didn't care. Erik meant the world to her. He was not simply another passing friend. Her heart wouldn't allow her to listen to such an implication, not when her engagement ring still rested right atop her breastbone, reminding her of such.

"Excuse me?" Raoul's words were spoken with a calm anger that was almost more frightening than if he had shouted at her.

"You said 'my friend'," Christine pointed out, not backing down, "Erik is not my friend, Raoul, he is my betrothed. Forgive me, I simply meant to correct your misunderstanding on the matter-" she gestured around the room, "-since you seem so confused on that front.

Christine didn't have time to register whether or not she should have continued to be smart with the viscount. As soon as she finished her sentence she felt the back of his hand connect with her cheek. Her face wiped to the side violently at being struck and Christine raised her hand, now shaking, to its stinging surface in disbelief. When she looked down at her fingertip she noted a spot of blood and knew the corner of her lip had been split, probably from the golden ring Raoul wore on his pointer finger. She didn't know Raoul was so strong, and hadn't expected simple words to fire up such a reaction from him. She was scared then, the bravery she'd held within herself earlier melting away entirely.

"You will _not_ speak that monster's name so dearly under my roof, Christine. Do you hear me? You are _mine_ now. Let that be your only reminder of such!"

Raoul pulled the golden band that had he just struck her with from his hand and shoved it onto her ring finger. Christine couldn't play nice any longer after that. She couldn't contain the hatred that burned inside of her for the man before her. With her left hand she gripped the handle of the knife through her skirt, her right one balled into a fist by her side. She would not allow herself to be a woman who accepted abuse, and she would not just stand there and listen to Raoul tarnish her fiance's good name. Erik was no monster. He was her angel, pure in soul and light, and she would defend him to her grave. It was Raoul who was the real monster. A monster borne of pretty lies and tainted wealth. Fighting back tears in her eyes, she took a step back from him. She decided then that she had to run. Devil may care, she had to flee. She couldn't fight Raoul physically, nor could she stand to be in his presence even a second longer. Surely her Erik had been freed by now, and Christine would find him, no matter where he'd gone. If Raoul caught up with her she would defend herself to her last breath, God give her strength if such a confrontation should occur.

As she turned heel to move though something stopped her. A loud crashing noise, the shattering of thick glass, sounding from the next room over. Christine and Raoul both turned towards the noise, both sharing the same look of shocked trepidation at the unexpected intrusion. After a second of standing frozen, Raoul shouted for his men, who were apparently outside the front entrance, for the sound of the large front doors being opened quickly followed his command. It was then that Christine heard the scuffle of the intruders more clearly, recognizing one very distinct voice amongst the throng. She ran to it immediately, full speed, not caring that obvious danger was presenting itself, not pausing one second to note that she may very well be running towards death itself. Raoul reached out to try and stop her but his fingertips only grazed her dress, not quite grasping a hold of the fabric. Courage, fright, and fury all boiled within Christine's veins as she left the room. The mixture of emotions made her heart race and her eyes water but she found she ran towards the violent sounds of the fight regardless of all the fears inside of her.

Because Erik was here, she was sure it was him, and he was in trouble. She hadn't been able to help him before. Nothing could stop her from trying to now.

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* * *

 **I have always appreciated Christine written as a brave and intelligent character. I hope my portrayal in this fic lives up to how highly I cherish those aspects of her. I tried very hard to showcase them in this chapter. How did feel about her deal with Raoul, a life for a life? Although she didn't really have a choice I think she made a rather noble decision in accepting his proposal, even if she never planned to follow through with it at the end of the day.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	35. A Ghost in the Night

A Ghost in the Night

1871

 _Erik_

He had been tried guilty, the vote from the jury having been unanimous. Such was expected of course. After all, the evidence against him had been staggeringly abundant, plentiful and organized, and he'd had but his word alone with no true alibi to defend his innocence. Yes, it had been clear from the start that even his own lawyer had thought him to be guilty. Erik had seen such in his eyes from the very first moment they'd met, the man's stiff, disdained smile when they'd shaken hands saying all all the words the professional hadn't dared to breathe aloud. At least he'd bothered though. The first two lawyers that had seen his face hadn't even been able to stomach the sight of it, fleeing from him without so much as a simple greeting or a moment's glance over his case.

When the day of his trial had finally arrived, Erik had half hoped that somehow, some way, even though French law forbade it, Adelaide and Christine could've made it to his hearing. He'd needed desperately to see them that morning, his small and broken family, if only just a glance to give him the perseverance he needed to stand before the judgmental crowd awaiting him. He'd longed for his older sister's reassuring smile, that curt and formal nod of hers to mask his many doubts. He'd yearned deeply at the same time for Christine's gentle eyes to calm his nerves, her sweet and tender laugh to help chase away the nightmares of death that had been haunting him all week, the ones that awoke him each night grasping the back of his neck in a sweat. Almost every eve now he'd had horrendous night terrors as he dreamt of his final moments on Earth, of Lady Justice stealing him away forever more into her dark, awaiting arms. How quickly he had changed inside these past few days. He'd grown more and more terrified of his fate since the day of his hearing. Only days ago he had been so sure that he would find a way out of this damp, dark torture chamber. He'd sworn to himself that he would not meet the same fate his friend Thomas had. But after days of near starvation, of restless nights alone on a cold, dank floor, and a trial that had ended in disaster, Erik felt himself growing tired. Weary and weak and running out of hope. It was only thoughts of Christine in these dark hours before death came knocking, only the knowledge that he had to escape in order to keep her safe that kept him from losing his mind entirely in fear of what was coming for him. Even without her near, his beloved still seemed to be the firm and steely grasp on his fragile sanity. Still the only lifeboat keeping him afloat in an ever stormy and tumbling sea.

For all she'd done for him he would never dare leave her alone in this world. Not to a life he now knew to be so cruel to young and beautiful women such as she. Not when Buquet's killer was still out there, somewhere lurking in the shadows he himself had once called home. No, he had to protect her. It was his duty, the solemn vow he'd kept for years now. She needed him now more than ever, and so he fought. Late into the evening he fought back the overwhelming shadows of hopelessness that attempted to cloud his mind. He plotted, keeping his frantic mind focused, counting out each stone, surveying each inch of his cell for a fault he could crawl out of so he could break free and go to her. But after many hours of such taxing tribulations, he realized no such simple outing could be found. La Sante was built to be a fortress, and even an illusionist as profound as he could not escape without his tools of deception and knowledge of the building itself. He sighed in frustration, knowing that even if he did somehow free himself of his cage he would probably still be caught within a mere matter of minutes, not knowing the hallways or the route leading to the main doors.

His last hope was to attempt to remove the bars from the window of his cell. He thought that if perhaps he could somehow loosen them he could escape through the gap. It would be a tight fit but it the only idea he had left, and he was desperate. He must've spent hours pulling and prying at them as the night rolled on, fuming and cussing under his breath as the cold night air slipped over him, teasing him, constantly reminding him that there was indeed still a world outside the prison, beckoning him closer. As time passed, he realized his efforts were to no avail. The metal hadn't budged one inch in the time he'd struggled with it, and the pads of his fingertips were starting to freeze, sticking to the icy metal, pulling off thin layers of skin as he moved them. It was only after he had lost the feeling in his fingers altogether that he pulled back to study them, flexing his stiff joints to reheat and animate them once more. He then reached down to his shirt and tore it horizontally at the hem, pulling free a strip of stiff fabric that he wound around both his hands and pulled taunt. He looked down at the strip wrapped overtop his knuckles and smiled darkly. Dawn would approach in mere hours. Perhaps if the guard that came to fetch him somehow got...indisposed of, then he would at least have a shot at his freedom. A shot to run and disappear, becoming but a mere ghost in the night to those who sought to find him, leaving behind nothing but a phantom legacy in his cell.

He really didn't want to have to kill anyone though. He didn't want his escape to have to be a life for life scenario. One man's blood on his hands was more than enough for this lifetime. His soul had already been blackened long ago, tainted permanently when he'd killed his keeper. For that night alone he was already probably damned to Hell. He supposed if he truly believed that though he wouldn't second guess the premise of killing a prison guard. He would just do whatever he pleased, and go to Hell one day a legend. Yet he did second guess himself. He stopped and questioned his future actions, because perhaps he wasn't damned after all. Perhaps in turning his life around he could still be saved. Erik's grip on the fabric loosened as he thought about the guard that would come for him. Whoever the man would be probably didn't deserve to die. He probably had a family, a wife as precious to him as Christine was to himself. Erik couldn't bare the thought of stripping two people apart like that, not without justifiable cause, not now that he knew firsthand what that eviscerating pain felt like. Truth be told, an unconscious guard would be just as effective as a dead one. Erik would just have to have a bit of self-control when the time came. He would have to stifle his adrenaline and not lose control. He would have to be forceful yes, but gentle somehow. Could he do such a thing?

As things played out, he never got to test the matter. Only minutes later the entire building seemed to shake as if it would collapse inwards upon itself. Erik himself lost his footing, falling into the nearest wall and striking his shoulder flush to the stone. The noise of an explosion could clearly be heard resonating off the towering, echoing halls, sounding from the farthest southern wing. There was a great bustle then, a clamor of sound and movement that followed as every guard in Erik's wing fled towards the commotion, the prisoners they left behind shouting and hollering questions as to what had happened and if they were safe. Erik himself felt dazed, completely thrown off his guard. He could only speculate reason as to why a prison of all places would be the target for such a terroristic attack. Surely the surrounding countries and France herself were still at peace? He hadn't been locked away that long.

Speculation was hindered unnecessary though as Erik glanced up to see two beady eyes staring down at him from the outside his cell's window. Those eyes were wide with surprise, as well as revulsion, belongings to a man with a flat face, crooked eyebrows, and an almost terrifying low chuckle that escaped his throat as he leaned into the bars, bemused by something unbeknownst to him. As Erik stood up with suspicion he could see another man standing just behind the first, a portly gent who did not share in his companion's obvious amusement, instead looking about like a hunted rat about to be snared dead in a trap.

"Aye there, our employer wasn't lying. You's is one ugly fuck," the beady-eyed man stated bluntly, reaching down to produce something from what Erik assumed by the strap on his shoulder to be a saddlebag. "Now yous gonna want to stand back, yous is. Ya hear me? All the way back, 'gainst yer bars. Cover your ears and duck your head as well. Ya wouldn't want anything scarring that pretty face of yers now, would ya?"

Erik could almost feel his jaw drop at the atrocious sense of dark humor laced throughout the man's voice. He was flabbergasted in stance, for never in his life had be been so taken back by a turn of events. He was about to question the thickly accented man's obviously deranged motives when he saw his hand rise up to hold something in front of the bars for him to see. It was a dark red tube with a long black rope hanging from the top. It glowed sinisterly in the moonlight as the man tilted it back and forth. Erik eyed the weapon warily, knowing immediately that obviously such a device had been the same cause of the explosion just a moment previous. Were these men here to kill him? Surely he had never met these gentlemen (a loose term for such men) before. What could they possibly have against him? He saw then in his mind's eye the explosive being dropped into his cell window. He would have no way out as the fire slowly consumed him. That seemed to him a very undesirable way to die. Surely even the guillotine was more merciful.

"Right then, is yous gonna let us get you out of here or is yous just gonna stand there an' gape at us?" the deranged man asked flatly, his smile fading away.

Erik blinked once, not sure he had heard the man correctly. "I don't understand. You're here to help me...to free me?"

"Not if you don't hurry!" the man snarled, "that little distraction only gives us so much time you know! Now move yer ass!"

Honestly, what other choice did he have? He could either stay and die as planned in the morning or take a chance breaking free with the unsorted types before him. He supposed the later option at least gave him a chance and so he nodded in agreement to the man's demands. He wondered though, as he backed up against his cell bars and ducked his head, what the ultimate motive for the two men was. Surely they knew who he was, to risk their lives to free him. But why? Did they know he had money? It wasn't a public fact, but he supposed one could assume his salary. And were they working independently, or for someone else? He doubted the integrity of the them less and less as the taller one chuckled manically once more, lighting the end of the explosive's wick and shoving it between the bars. Erik could hear the crackling noise of the wax melting as the lit end slowly trailed upwards. The two men ran from sight then, for cover as it sparked, and Erik suddenly wondered whether or not the end would be painful.

The explosive seemed to go off in slow motion, every second holding its own moment of action. Erik first heard the snapping of the stick as it burst outward, then grimaced as the pressure wave of the chemical reaction forced a heavy, foul-scented smoke past his face. Then he felt the debris. Sharp heavy stones hitting his body, each one more painful than the last. The cell was so small that for a second he feared he would be buried alive, or at the very least impaled by one of the flying iron bars. The rods landed far off to the right of him though, pinging off the walls with echoing clangs as they tumbled to the floor and rolled about. Stone fragments lay in a pile where the explosive had gone off, a clearing of wall at least five feet wide now blown open. Erik stood up, coughing at the dust that arose from the mess of his cage. He tripped slightly over the stones, his ankles rolling as he moved, crawling towards the moonlight and the snowy landscape of freedom before him.

As the fresh but icy air hit the exposed mangled flesh of Erik's cheek, he knew at once they were on a timer to flee. The guards would come running any second now, guns drawn, shooting long before they stopped to ask questions. He stole one final glance up at Lady Vengeance, who looked eerily beautiful covered in icicles tonight, and swore to himself to remember those lost before turning to see the two men beckoning him to follow quickly. His mind still spinning from the fumes and his ears still ringing he followed, running fast on their heels as they led the way off the grounds. The three men kept moving, kept sprinting until they were at the edge of the woods, hidden in the trees, where they finally slowed down a moment to rest. The portly man, obviously out of shape, leaned against a tree with both arms, struggling to take a breath, his face flushed. The thin man simply laughed though, clapping his hands together, a madman rejoicing. He turned and took Erik's hand in his afterwards, shaking it in the fashion of a job well done.

"That was a jolly good time, that was!" the madman exclaimed, "I haven't 'ad that sort of fun in months!"

"That... _that_ was enjoyable to you?" Erik asked bluntly, disgusted and bewildered by the lunatic's ravings.

"Of course it was! I love for this shit, my good man! Causing chaos is my calling, my life's work!" he declared proudly.

"And what kind of work is it you do exactly?" Erik asked, unsure if he truly wanted as answer.

"Dirty work, my friend," the man explained with a thin smile, "all kinds of dirty, _nasty_ work; to be paid in cash half up front and half at completion. Now, our current employer didn't instruct us on how we was to do break you out, no he didn't. He only said to 'find a way'. So of course we went with my way then." The man reached into his saddlebag and produced another one of the red explosive sticks. Erik immediately took a step back. There was no telling how this insane man's mind worked, only that he was dangerous and had far too much fun blowing things to bits. "See these little beauts here is called dynamite. Invented in my hometown, they were! Mister Nobel won lots of awards for inventing 'em, he did. A whole public ceremony was put on for 'im. I was hired a week later by a business man who had attended the after party. He became fascinated with the concept of dynamite, for use in his mines, and wanted the schematics to make them. I was the man hired to steal them papes. Of course I penned down a copy for meself before delivering them, though. Wonderful things, ain't they?"

Erik didn't know whether he was to be fearful or impressed. A part of him wanted to flee from the smiling and obviously disturbed man, yet another part of him, he was embarrassed to admit even to himself, wanted to stay and study the weapon personally. It was, after all, frighteningly clever in design. But Erik had more pressing matters to discuss with the men who had just freed him. He wanted to know the cost of such an escapade.

"Your boss, why did he free me?" Erik inquired, peering around the trees for an escape route in case one was needed, for surely they had been followed.

"That really isn't any of ma business, sir. Didn't ask. We was just told to get you to the border, we was. So that's what we'll do."

"By whom though?" Erik pressed.

"You see we really can't tell you that, monsieur," the portly man interrupted, pushing off the tree with a groan, "We can't risk him being found out as having a part in all this. That would be our necks on the line. We can, however, take you to him if you'd like. I'm sure he would appreciate your gratitude over what he was done for you."

The madman looked to his partner with confusion. "Samuel, what are you goin' on about? That wasn't part of the plan."

"Well, you see...plans change, Ronald."

As the man named Samuel spoke Erik flinched, hearing a shot ring out in the otherwise silent night. The madman Ronald fell to the forest floor then, clutching the side of his stomach with tightly pressed hands. Dark red blood poured over them, gushing down his pant leg and seeping into the snow. Erik turned in horror towards the source of the sound to see Samuel holding a pistol low to his side, half concealed beneath the hem of his jacket. Ronald's body twitched once, then stayed perfectly still amongst a puddle of stained earth as he died. Samuel then turned the pistol towards Erik, and he in return held his palms out defensively, slowly taking a step backwards. He hated himself then. Hated himself for having even the smallest inkling of trust in these men. He knew escaping La Sante had been too good to be true and it seemed now, despite everything, he would still die. He would still lose his Christine.

"Not another step, Destler!" Samuel warned sternly.

"Samuel, listen to me, I don't know what-"

"Not another word!" he warned firmly, cutting him off.

Erik fell silent, narrowing his eyes as Samuel advanced, clicking the hammer on his pistol downwards to change rounds. He fumed, taking a single staggering breath. He should have known a man so quiet would be deadly and have his own ulterior motives. His captor slowly advanced around his side, keeping his pistol pointed directly at his chest the entire time. Finally, he stood behind him, and the barrel of the gun grazed the center of his spine, the metal still hot from firing that last fatal shot. Erik's first instinct was to move, to fight and attempt to disarm the man, but he couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk being shot now, not here, left to die as Ronald had been. No, he was smarter than that. Whatever this man wanted he would barter. For Christine's sake he would go along with whatever his dirty plot revealed itself to be.

"Are you going to kill me as well?" Erik asked, nonchalantly nodding towards the bloody corpse by their feet after a long, silent moment had passed. His expressionless tone must have angered Samuel, for he felt the barrel of the gun pull back slightly only to be shoved even harder into his chilled, stiff back.

"In time, yes," Samuel answered in a low voice, "but not just yet. Walk."

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	36. A Mercy Killing

A Mercy Killing

1871

 _Erik_

Erik felt his very bones freezing within his body. With each step he took he felt as though they were turning to glass, and that at any moment they may shatter beneath his skin. His fingers barely bent now as they continued traipsing through the dark forest, Samuel's gun pressed hard into his backbone, the man's heavy breathing the only sound he could hear besides the whistle of the wind through the gnarled tree branches above. They walked for nearly an hour that way, in that terrible and foreboding silence.

Erik was somehow maintaining a flat expression and calm demeanor as they walked, even though every muscle in his body screamed for him to fight, to run. Even though every fiber of his being demanded he turn, disable his opponent, and _end this torment._ By now he'd thought of a hundred ways to do so. His best scenario, he figured, would be to turn around and grab the pistol's barrel, pointing it up into the air and letting the shot Samuel held with a shaking trigger finger fire off. With that moment of safety he could then swing his leg out and trip the bastard into the snow so that he could take him by surprise and gain the upper hand.

Worst case scenario though, he would turn and immediately his world would go dark as a bullet shattered his skull. There was no telling how such a ploy would play out. It was a fifty-fifty shot, figuratively and literally speaking. For each successful turn of events playing out in his head there seemed to be just as many negative outcomes, and Erik couldn't afford to be shot now, not in such a weakened state. He couldn't afford to have come so far in life only to die in some godforsaken forest where no one would ever even find his body. He wouldn't be surprised if Ronald's corpse had already been buried beneath the fresh snowfall, lost to the world until the thaw of springtime. More likely though a starving predator had already come to claim the body, grateful for the sustenance it would provide over the course of the next harsh week to come.

Erik had been shocked by the murder of Ronald, yes, but found he didn't necessarily feel sorrow over such a man meeting his end. For who knew what sorts of misdeeds his odd jobs had led him to do, who knew just how many felonies he'd committed in his lifetime, how many lives he had torn apart working for dirty, under the table money. Indeed, the world was probably better off without a man such as he. Ronald's death did make Erik wonder though just what kind of a man Samuel was. It seemed to Erik that he felt not one single ounce of remorse for gunning down his partner, which made him very dangerous indeed. Obviously he meant business and was street smart, being able to come of with schemes of his own instead of mindlessly following orders set by others. But to what aim? Erik could only imagine what had caused this man possessed to abandoned his employer's plans, whatever that may have been, and set forth his own.

The forest ahead seemed to be clearing, the trees thinning out slowly, the frosty underbrush becoming more sparse with passing each step. Erik could have sworn he heard the quickening of Samuel's pulse as they emerged from the woods, out onto a vast field, an untouched blanket of ice and snow beneath a dark and cloudy sky. A single mansion lay quietly at the end of the property, the main road just beyond it, its streetlights seeming like far away stars from where the two men stood now. Erik focused his attention on the mansion, assuming the man he supposedly owed his gratitude to was dwelling somewhere within its vast walls. Sure enough, Samuel instructed him to proceed forward.

It was only moments then before they stood amongst the shadows of the great structure. Erik looked up at it, squinting his eye against the falling snow. The bricks of it were covered in frozen yellow moss, the few finely landscaped trees lining it barren from the frost. Large windows without curtains lined the the building every few feet, showing off the grandeur of the interior of the home. Erik could tell from first glance that the owner was a man who enjoyed his wealth. Every piece of furniture looked custom, every bookshelf in his library full of brand new leather books, not a single one with a worn spine or bent corner. No, of course a seedy man like this didn't actually skim his collection. Surely books were merely a decoration to him, like most aristocrats. Such a waste of fine literature, really. Erik groaned inwardly, dreading the prospect of dying at the hands of an illiterate man. That is of course if Samuel didn't kill him first.

"Have you figured out who I am yet?" came Samuel's low, threatening voice from behind him after a moment.

"I've figured out you're a raving lunatic," Erik replied dryly.

"Really? You don't recognize me? The familiar face doesn't haunt you at night? You must truly be a monster then, same as you look. A guiltless, heartless monster."

Samuel spit out the last word, realizing the way it had caused him to flinch. He clenched his fists by his side - once, twice, thrice - flexing his fingers in an attempt to maintain composure. But remaining calm and clear-headed was difficult after the amount of times he'd been called a monster since being arrested. Over and over again for days now he'd heard nothing but insults slung at him in regards to his face. Humanity was truly beginning to wear thin on his temper. He took a deep breath to collect himself, reminding himself that a single bullet was all it took to silence him forever. That being the case he had to tread lightly with his choice of words.

He turned slightly to glance over his shoulder. Should he recognize Samuel? A familiar face, he'd said. But was it familiar? At his slight movement Samuel reacted, raising the gun higher so that Erik was staring directly into its cold, steel face. His hands were shaking with the sheer tightness that he held the pistol with, his trigger finger itching, his narrow eyes widening. It was in those wide, frightened eyes that Erik finally recognized him. In that face that Erik saw the man he'd once had the unfortunate means to meet. Samuel had the same long face as him. He also had the same wiry brown hair, only his was dusted with gray patches. His figure was just the same, short and large but strong.

"You're Buquet's brother," Erik said quietly.

Samuel visibly twitched, hearing his dead sibling's name spoken aloud. "That's right, Destler. Joseph was my brother. The brother _you_ stole from me."

Erik continued to turn around slowly, to face the grieving, broken man. "I hate to disappoint you, to put a damper on your obviously well thought out revenge plan, but Buquet did not die by my hands, Samuel."

Samuel's face went cross as he whipped the pistol sideways, striking it across Erik's deformity. He may have yelled then, calling Erik a liar along with a multitude of other choice words, but Erik hadn't heard a word of them through his own cry as he felt the thin and fragile skin of his face tear away. He raised his hand to his cheek, feeling warm blood pour over his fingers and trail down his neck. His eyes stung with tears, as this was a pain he'd never experienced before. Not a whip on his back or a knife upon his limbs had ever compared to the sheer sharpness of Samuel's gun hitting what Erik could only assume was now exposed bone. Samuel didn't stop there though. He then brought the gun up under his jaw, and Erik felt blood spray upwards as he was thrown backwards, staggering to the side until he fell to the snow.

It was there, laying in the frozen earth, that Erik nearly gave in. Nearly begged for death. He didn't know if he could physically carry on, not with his entire body numb, sore and bleeding as it was. Lying there he felt as though the last twenty years had never happened. That perhaps it had all been a dream and he was still just an abused freakshow receiving his nightly beating. He placed his palm down into the snow to steady himself, watching the blood from his face drip down onto the undisturbed white ground like wine spilling across a fine lace tablecloth. Such a perfect landscape, ruined. Everything he touched he seemed to ruin. Everything in his life, no matter how hard he fought to preserve it, was eventually ruined. Such was the curse of his birth.

He saw the shadow of Samuel Buquet loom over him. "Don't you lie to me, Destler! You killed him! Killed my baby brother! My only flesh and blood!" The man had tears running down his face as he leaned down to look him in the eye. "Our mum died young, you know. I was barely ten when I had to bury her. Do you know what that felt like? It was like burying a piece of my own soul in the ground. And then father, oh father, of course he couldn't stick around after that. No sir, he left in the dead of night, leaving us alone to rot. So you see after that it was me that had to man up and raise Joseph. Me! I taught him to speak, to read! I taught him everything he knew! I had to be his brother and his father, while I was no more than a child myself. And he wasn't perfect all the time but he was still my brother dammit...we were still a family and he was all I had. And then you...you took him away. _You_ _took him away from me_!"

A blow from Samuel's boot came to his chest then, knocking the wind from his lungs as he fell once more to his face, the ice on the ground cutting into his arms as he broke the fall. Erik glared up at the man, almost feeling sorry that he obviously didn't seem to know the truth about what an awful drunkard his brother had been. He placed his hand down into the snow once more to steady himself as he shakily rose to his feet. "Believe me or don't Samuel, it makes no difference to me. That's your choice to make. But why drag this out? If you'd simply wanted to kill me you would've done so back in the woods. So what is it you want?"

Samuel's face went red with furry. "I want you to know my pain, Destler! I want you to suffer just the same as I did! I want to watch you crumble and fall apart, knowing you too have lost the only person in this world you ever truly care for!"

A darkness stirred deep within Erik. It was obvious the man was referring to Christine. A rather foolish thing to do. "I would retract that threat, Samuel. I really would. I would take it back _right now_ , because _anything_ you try and do to her, I will unleash back on you tenfold, you bastard! She has no part in this!"

Samuel almost seemed amused then, not at all bothered by the fact that Erik was already mentally strangling him, slowly pulling the life from his body with drawn out pleasure. "Why Destler, listen to you...you're so full of rage. You must _really_ love this woman."

Erik advanced towards the man, furiously determined to end things now before any sort of tragedy ever had the chance to befall Christine. He only got in one step though before Samuel once more raised the gun once more to his face. "It's a shame really, that you're willing to die for her. She certainly wouldn't do the same for you. I doubt she even cares that you've been gone."

"You vile piece of shit. You have _no_ right to speak for her!" Erik spat.

"Oh, but I do! For I speak the truth, unlike you. If you don't believe me then take a look for yourself. See with your own eyes that I don't lie."

Samuel had a low, smug tone in his voice as he gestured for Erik to continue walking. Erik hesitated, his first thought being that Samuel's words were a dirty trick. That the man merely meant to distract him, to get him to turn away so that he could exterminate him without conflict. But if Christine were here, if she was trapped or hurt or worse...no, he had to see with his own eyes that she was safe and whole. He made his choice and turned away from his captor, slowly rounding the corner of the mansion, all the while dreading each breath and step he took, knowing very well that Samuel once more held his life in his hands from where he stood.

The far side of the mansion had the same large windows, these ones facing inwards to reveal a grand dining hall. It was far too extravagant of a setup in Erik's opinion, and he himself had quite the extravagant taste. It wasn't the awful interior that caught his attention though, but the woman dining within it.

Erik fell to his knees at the sight of her. His Christine, his angel...why he barely even recognized her. That long wild hair of hers that he loved so much was wrapped up tight in a neat spiral atop her head, each hair perfectly in place as if she'd always worn it in such a fashion. The dress she wore was over the top and gaudy, with shimmering gold stitching and heavy, mauve colored fabric. From afar he could see that she was smiling, perhaps even laughing, at something the man across from her had said. His stomach churned as he closed his eyes, willing away the scene before him. Yet when he opened them once more it hadn't changed one bit. There his fiancee remained, smiling that same sweet smile he loved so much, at none other than the viscount himself.

Erik wondered if the heartbreak he felt inside himself then would kill him. It hurt badly enough that he thought it to be an actual possibility. His pulse seemed to slow and he felt as though his breathing were becoming far too shallow to sustain life. He couldn't even begin to describe such a pain. It was hollowing and degrading, all the while stinging like salt rubbed into every wound he'd ever known. He recalled Adelaide's word from years ago. In that other time she had prayed he would never get to know this feeling. He finally understood those long nights of hers, hidden away from the world, too crippled to emerge.

"You were gone, Destler. You left her distraught and alone. It only made sense for her to find comfort in another."

"No, this can't be real," Erik whispered, raising a hand up to touch the glass, hoping for it all to be some sick, twisted joke. The surface of the window was icy as he left a smudge of blood on its flawless surface. Tears fell from his eyes, but he couldn't force himself to look away from Christine's face. He searched it, scanned it for any sign that this was merely a ploy, a facade somehow. But he found no faults in her smile. She didn't seem distressed or upset in the least as she dined on her fine, French cuisine off a porcelain platter. Erik watched her actions in disgust as she lifted her fork and spoke soft, silent words, gesturing with it. The utensil itself seemed to be made of solid silver. Could his lover have been bought so easily? It just didn't seem like her. His gaze fell to her other hand, which rested atop the table. She tapped her fingers ever so slightly as she spoke, and it was staring at that small gesture that Erik felt the lump in his throat stiffen to the point where he may have stopped breathing altogether.

Because her engagement ring...it was gone. The beautiful golden ring he had designed just for her, the drafts which had taken him hours to design, the shop he'd searched days for to craft it, it was all gone. She'd gone and discarded it. He wondered where. In the Seine? Down the sewers of the opera house itself? Why, she'd probably assumed from the start that he would be a man condemned. Probably taken it off the moment the police had escorted him away. What a treacherous viper his beloved was. Was a foul, beautiful vixen she had proven herself to be. She had played him, strung him along like an old violin, and he had happily let her. Had it been that way ever since the beginning? Could a love he'd thought so true and pure have been nothing but a mirage the entire time?

No, it couldn't have been. He refused to believe it! Something about this was wrong, it had to be! But as the seconds dragged on her true feelings seemed all the more plain. The viscount, in all his smug glory, eventually stood up from his chair at the head of the table and crossed over to her side, holding out his hand for hers.

 _Don't!_

Erik's plea was silent, desperate, calling out to Christine from his very soul. He was begging her to turn away from the man before her, to reject him. But it did no good. His wish fell upon her like a ghost, seeming to pass right through her as her little hand raised up to take a hold of Raoul's. He turned away, unable to bare this torture anymore. He couldn't look at his Christine, happily playing bride to another man, a man more vulgar than a vulture. He couldn't stomach the sight of such a thing. Blood continued dripping down his neck, the warmth of it the only warmth he felt in the cool, unforgiving night as even his heart itself seemed to freeze over.

"How's this bullet looking now, Destler?" Samuel prompted, "Not too bad, huh? Seems to me that offing you now would almost be an act of kindness. A mercy killing, if you will. So go on. Ask for it. Ask me to kill you. I'll gladly oblige, may my brother's soul finally find peace with yours in Hell."

Erik looked up into the barrel of Samuel's pistol. One shot, one small moment, and all would be done. Over. There would be no more pain, no gut wrenching betrayal on the other side. Only a sense of peace as sweet darkness finally overcame him. It was so tempting. It had been tempting for years now. For who was he to walk amongst man? Surely he was never meant to be a part of their crowds, their kindnesses. Tonight had proved that for the thousandth time over. Samuel was right, perhaps killing him now would be doing him a favor. After all he was a convicted murderer, a man on the run. Could he really spend the rest of his life running, hunted down like a wild animal? Would it even be worth it? At the end of each long, dreadful night there would be no one else besides him. Only he himself, alone, trapped and haunted by the memories of what could've been. Of what once was. Of his Christine. Oh, his Christine...how could she?

He decided then that he would allow Buquet to kill him. It wasn't worth it to fight anymore. His life wasn't worth anything and he was tired of pretending that it ever had been. All the shit that he'd been dragged through in his near thirty years of life, he'd endured it all without one ounce of reprieve. And to be honest, at this point he was simply exhausted. He had been cursed from birth, such was apparent, and it was long past due now to bury him, to send him back to the depths of Hell from whence he'd been spawned. He turned back towards the window. One last glance, he decided, to at least pretend that she was still his. To pretend that she hadn't abandoned all they were and that his life had held at least some meaning at one time. He watched her speaking to the viscount and in his head he whispered to her a kind farewell, wishing her nothing but the best in life. He wished her endless happiness, even after she had hurt him so. For he knew he could never truly hate her, no matter what she did. He loved her too endlessly.

It was perhaps fate in that moment that he had turned to say his goodbyes when he had. Had he been a more bitter man he would have just taken Samuel's bullet right then and there. As it was though he was facing inwards during that fateful, vital moment when Raoul's hand flew, striking Christine across her cheek. A bright red spot of blood appeared on her lip from the force of his action, which she reached up with shock and fear to wipe away with her fingertips. Erik decided then that he couldn't just lay down and die. He couldn't leave his Christine to be treated in such a manner, even though she had left him to endure much much worse. No, he wouldn't allow such a sweet, perfect flower to be bruised on his watch. Couldn't leave this world with her in any sort of harm's way.

And so he turned, a vengeful guardian angel, and moved faster than Samuel could react, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pointing it upwards towards the sky. It played out almost exactly as he'd planned it to earlier. The stunned man staggered backwards, thrown off balance, giving Erik enough time to dive for his legs. He grabbed them, pulling them tightly together, causing him to fumble over. The portly man landed with a cry as Erik climbed atop him and struck his face. Samuel went to swing his pistol then, to strike out, but Erik grabbed his wrist and twisted it violently, causing the pistol to fall unclaimed into the snow beside them. They both froze for a moment then before simultaneously diving for the weapon, tumbling into the frozen ground and sliding it far beneath the surface somewhere. When Samuel saw that the gun was a lost cause he bucked Erik away, abandoning his plan and scrambling to his feet, taking off in a sprint. Erik was behind him in seconds, not having bothered to dig around for the pistol. Attempting to try and find it would have been time consuming, and he didn't have a second to waste. He couldn't risk Samuel going to Raoul and possibly placing Christine in the middle of all this. He caught up with his opponent as he rounded the corner of the mansion, wrapping his arms around his thick waist and tackling him.

They both fell then, through the nearest window, shards of glass raining down upon them.

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	37. Shots Fired

Shots Fired

1871

 _Erik_

The inside of the mansion was filled to the brim with an abundance of warmth, but Erik didn't have time to enjoy the sense of feeling returning to his limbs. Samuel was wiggling out from beneath him, sliding across the floor like a snake over to the nearest end table. There he he grabbed a heavy candlestick with both hands and stood up, a deranged and animalistic look upon his face, which was shredded to ribbons from falling through the glass. Erik backed up instinctively, placing both palms on the hardwood floors to push him upwards to his feet. He frantically surveyed the library, looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon. Unless he were to fight with a book though his options were limited. Samuel advanced towards him, the brass candlestick raised above his head. Erik held up his forearms, crossed in defense, already anticipating the feeling of their bones breaking as he blocked the blow that would surely be aimed to his head. He winced as the man swung, already feeling the ghost of the pain to come, but the blow never landed.

Instead he heard Samuel cry out, the man knocked to his side as a blur of color flew past his field of vision. As the heavyset man landed books rained down from the library shelves as the room shook, and on the floor he saw Christine crawl atop him, pulling the candlestick from his grasp and tossing it aside, where it rolled far from his reach. Erik panicked and dropped to the floor just as Samuel reached out for her neck, grabbing the side of his face and slamming it down hard against the floor. Samuel tried to fight back, but Erik was done with his trifling games. He pushed Christine aside and grabbed the nearest hardback book off the floor, pressing the spine of it roughly against the man's throat. Within seconds he could see Samuel losing consciousness. Still though he did not let up. There was far too much tension pent up in his body for him to do so, far too much anger at all that had happened to lead up to this point. The unresponsive man turned a sickly pale blue, and Erik knew he had but seconds to live. He smiled in twisted satisfaction.

A small but hard grip pulled at his shoulder. "Erik stop, you'll kill him!"

Erik froze, broken from his murderous trance, and obeyed Christine's order without a second thought, dropping the book to the side where it hit the floor with a hollow thud. He saw the slightest bit of color return to Samuel's face as the man once more began to breathe shallowly. Christine was in his arms then, crying and clinging to him as if she would fall off the side of the Earth should she let go. He was shocked to say the least, feeling the desperate tightness of her embrace. A part of him was still torn, hurt by her actions, but the other part of him, the part that lived and breathed only for her, soared with happiness as he held her in return, both of them on their knees as he twisted his hands tightly in the fabric of her dress.

Their reunited bliss was short-lived though. The sounds of heavy-clad boots coming down the hall caused Erik to remember the surrounding danger and act fast. He pulled himself and Christine to their feet. Then, as gently as he could, he grabbed her by the shoulders and positioned her so that she was hidden behind him. For no matter how she had betrayed him, no matter how much he wished he could hate her and leave her to Raoul's brute men, he just couldn't. She would always be his to protect.

"Do not harm the girl!" Raoul's order sounded clearly from the next room over. Erik curled his lip hearing the sound of the viscount's voice. Of course the bastard would hide. He was far too plush to handle matters himself.

Two men dressed sharply in black stepped into the room. Erik had to admit they were quite the intimidating pair. Each had a pistol in hand and the one to the left also had a dangerously long hunting knife holstered to his hip in plain view, obviously meant to frighten those whose saw it. The effect worked. He felt Christine stiffen behind him at the sight of them, clinging to the remains of his prisoner's shirt in a tight and fearful clutch as the men loomed in closer.

"Step aside from the woman," the taller of the two brutes ordered.

Erik held his arms out to either side, trying desperately to shield the soprano as much as he could from the men's frightening gazes. "I'm afraid you'll have to make me."

His taunt provoked the two men, their faces twisting as their lips curled and their eyebrows drew in close together. They charged, the first grabbing hold of his left arm and tossing him aside as if he weighed no more than a mere ten kilos, instead of the eighty he was. He slammed into the nearest bookshelf hard, books raining down around him off the shelves, some of them striking Samuel's body and bouncing off it onto the floor. The man in black moved quickly then, firing off four gunshots, each one barely missing Erik as he dove to the ground. Three of the bullets fired into the shelves, splintering off wood and paper bursts in all directions. The fourth barely missed his calf, instead embedding itself into the face of the unconscious Samuel, his blood spraying up into the center of the room as his face caved in, causing Christine to scream.

The man was slightly taken back by his accidental slaughter and the piercing sound that she emitted, hesitating a moment before firing off the last of his two rounds, which missed wildly due to his lack of concentration. As he went to take aim once more Erik rushed him, grabbing him by the waist and plummeting them both down through the middle of the side table the candlestick had been on. The wooden debris that littered the floor around them from the wreckage was sharp and jagged, and Erik moved quickly, grabbing a piece the length of his hand and slamming it down through the man's chest with both hands. The man cried out, dropping his pistol to the floor where it discharged a single shot out the busted window. Blood poured over the sides of his chest then, seeping into the maple floors as Erik stared down at what he'd just done with horrified eyes.

Disgust with himself didn't last long though. A shot struck his shoulder then, the pain blistering and sending a blaze of fiery pain throughout his entire body. He didn't let it knock him down though. There was enough adrenaline coursing through his veins now that he just kept moving regardless. He grabbed the pistol by the deceased guard's side and turned it towards the man, who was now holding Christine out in front of himself. Erik cursed silently. He knew he could never will himself to fire with her so close, would never risk hitting her by accident. The guard didn't need to know that though.

"You won't shot!" the guard declared arrogantly, as if reading his thoughts, "If you do you might hit this little bird, and we both know you care for her far too much to risk that!"

"If you truly believe that monsieur, then you underestimate just what a monster I am!" Erik shot back, "Look at my face and tell me again just how much I _care_! Please, remind me once more how much I long for the affections of a whore for ran straight to another man the very moment I was removed from the picture!"

The guard looked quite uncertain of his human shield upon Erik's outburst, doubt clouding his eyes. Christine herself looked anguished, his derogatory term seeming to seep down into her very core. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at him in desperation. It was far too late for her apologies now though. Erik had seen her true colors. The way she'd held him just moments ago...he'd let himself go in that embrace. But staring at her now from a distance his head was clear and he remembered just how badly she had betrayed him. He saw the thin golden band on her finger that wasn't his and he lost his control, turning his anger towards her.

"Just how long did you wait, Christine! Hm! How long before you decided I was a lost cause! Did you run to the viscount that very night or did you at least wait a few days out of respect for those of us sentenced to die?"

Christine stared at him with horror, her tears of sadness turning to those of fury. "You bastard! You have no right to say such things to me! I nearly _died_ the night you were taken away! And all of this, everything I've been put through here, it has all been for your sake!" Her sobs broke out once more. "Raoul's men may have been the ones to free you, but it was _I_ who paid for that service, with myself! It was all I had to give! All _he_ would take! All I could do to save your life!"

The guard behind Christine seemed very uncertain of where he stood, stuck in the middle of their shouting. Christine reached up to her throat as she finished speaking. A thin silver chain was barely visible around her small neck. She grabbed hold of it and pulled it outwards, the rest of the hidden necklace slipping out from its tucked away place within her complicated corset. She then yanked it hard, the chain breaking, and threw it at him as hard as she could. Erik could only stagger back in surprise as her engagement ring struck the middle of his chest and fell to the floor. In that moment he felt himself cave in and nearly fall apart. He felt lower than he ever had before for even daring to proclaim her affections falsehood. If they made it out of this alive, he would beg her forgiveness for the rest of his life. Right now though he could only stare up at her and plead with his eyes that she understood through his current state how things must have appeared to be.

Christine's fury didn't let up. Erik didn't know who she was more angry at in that moment, himself or the man holding her captive. Either way she seemed thoroughly through with being a prisoner. As Erik and the guard stood with pistols raised in stalemate she lunged to grab the knife from the holster of his leg, bringing it up in an expert flick of the wrist to slash his face. The guard cried out, falling backwards as he slapped his palm up to cover his bleeding cheek. Christine stepped off to the side as he staggered away, dropping the bloody knife and giving a nod to Erik to proceed. Erik took her order and fired the gun in his hands, the bullet entering the man's throat, a gory spray following that shot as the man fell to the ground and seemed to choke on his own blood.

Erik dropped the pistol then, too exhausted to continue on. The library around him was in disarray, books and pieces of furniture littering the floor, blood covering every inch of the room in some form or another. Pain still seared through his shoulder where he'd been shot, and Christine stood only a little ways away from him, breathing hard as she stared him down with cold eyes. There was a hatred in those eyes that he had never seen before. Her face seemed worn, aged in mere minutes by all that she'd seen. He took a slow step towards her, half expecting her to turn and run from the man who had dared to ruin her name aloud, who had brought such violence and destruction into her life. She didn't move though. She merely let her shoulders fall as she began to cry, her tough exterior falling away as she looked down at the blood spray on her clothes and the bodies on the ground.

Erik crossed the room quickly and with his good arm he pulled her in close to his body, shielding her eyes from the horrors she needn't dare dwell on. The fight was over now and she was safe. That was all that mattered to him. As she clung to him he only hoped in time she would heal from what had happened here tonight. He didn't know what the next few days would bring though. He was still a man on the run and he knew he had to leave, escape while he still had the chance. The only question now was whether or not he had truly lost her, or if she would go with him.

He turned away from her slightly, looking over to see the anguish on her face as he let her go, and bent down, wincing from the pain as he did, to carefully pick up her engagement ring off the floor. He turned back to her and held it out almost timidly, apologetically. She stared at it a good long minute, probably the longest minute of Erik's life, before pulling off the thin golden band from her finger and tossing it aside, slipping her own ring back in to its rightful place. There were no more words needed then, nothing left to say. Erik knew that silently, in that moment, they both proclaimed all they needed to in order to set things right between them. He pulled her in close and kissed her, softly and gently, just once, before holding her once more tightly against himself as they both shook, overcome with emotion.

"I thought for sure you were dead when he fired," Christine cried into his chest, holding him tightly, her breathing ragged, "I thought for sure I had lost you forever."

Erik eyes watered, hearing the care in her voice. He rested his chin upon her hair, ignoring the spike from the pins in it. "Oh, Christine. You'll never lose me. I promise. I'm here now. This is all over."

He closed his eyes for just a moment, taking in her scent, her touch, her love. It was almost too much for him to bare. He felt as though over the past week he had been lost but now once more he'd found home. For she was home. Wherever she was, he was whole and complete. Though only just alive with his injuries he felt more alive then than he had in years. She filled him with unexplainable life, with mirth and joy he'd never thought he could know, just by being within his presence. How he'd yearned for her so in their time apart. How he'd needed this. His Christine, his fiancee, his everything. Here, in the flesh, in his arms.

In that moment where there seemed to be only the two of them left in the world, Erik let down his defenses. They'd both forgotten though that there was one last player on the board. The king of the castle they found themselves in. Suddenly, so suddenly, his happiness shattered. Christine was yanked from his grasp and thrown across the hardwood where she landed in a mess of sorts, falling amongst splintered wood and broken glass. Erik looked down at her once, only to make sure she wasn't too badly injured, before turning in anger to face the viscount. The man stood only a few meters away, pistol in hand.

"No more violence, Vicomte!" Erik yelled, "Can't you see there's been enough bloodshed tonight? Lay down your weapon and allow us to leave here in peace! Enough is enough!"

"Enough indeed!" Raoul agreed, clicking the hammer down on his pistol and taking aim at Erik's chest, "End of games!"

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	38. A Mistress of Her Own

A Mistress of Her Own

1871

Christine

Christine placed her hand down onto the shards of glass beneath her, pushing herself upright to a seated position, watching in horror as Raoul held his gun up to take aim at Erik. Inside her chest she could feel her heart pounding away, fast as a hummingbird's wings, so loudly that she could barely hear herself breathe as the thumping resonated in her ears. Erik stood only a few meters away from her with his fists clenched tightly by his sides, his posture poised in a lethal coil. She noticed now that he was not wearing his mask and wondered if the prison had taken it away or if it had been lost somewhere in the fight. Without the protection of it the deformed side of his face had been injured at some point, the purple-blue skin beneath his eye ripped away almost all the way to the base of his earlobe. A stark whiteness shown brightly at the base of his cheek, and Christine wondered just how deep the bloody wound was and if it was indeed exposed bone she was looking at.

In general he looked a mess, as if he had come here straight from the battlefields of war. Christine wondered with fearful astonishment how he was even still standing. The gunshot to his left shoulder wasn't bleeding badly, but his arm was hanging at a strange angle from where the bullet had entered, rotating it outward. The prison garb he wore had obviously once been a dark charcoal color, though now it was stained red with blood from the various cuts and scrapes spread across his arms and neck. Yes, any moment now she was sure he would collapse. He was only human after all, and no man could go on for too long in such a state. It was impossible to ask someone too, even someone as strong and resilient as he. She was positive that any second now the adrenaline of the fight would wear off and he would fall unconscious. That is, if Raoul didn't shoot him first.

She didn't like either of those two options.

"Raoul, stop this!" she cried loudly, capturing both men's attention.

The viscount turned his head slightly in her direction, looking astounded that she had dared to speak to him, and given him an order at that.

"Christine, stay quiet! Can't you see that you've done enough damage tonight?" he snapped, "I mean really, take a look around! For God's sake woman, look at how many people have died here tonight because of you!"

"Don't you dare speak to her like that!" Erik snarled, "None of this is her fault! This is your doing, Changy! Not hers!"

Christine watched Raoul take a step closer to Erik, his voice dropping low and harsh. "None of this is _my_ doing, Destler. None of it. These are all men the two of you have killed, not I! I've had enough blood spilled by my own hands for one lifetime, dammit! I wanted no more! Especially not in my own home!"

Christine swallowed hard, letting Raoul's words sink in. Surely her dear sweet childhood friend, no matter how much he'd changed, had never killed someone...had he? And yet she knew then and there that he had. It was so obvious. She wondered how she hadn't realized it before. She brought her hand up to her mouth as she gasped in shocked realization. Everything that had happened to herself and Erik, all of the tragedy that had befallen them both, it had all sprung from the same catalyst.

"You killed Buquet," she whispered aloud, horrified. Raoul's eyes went wide at her words. She watched his face grow dark with clouded guilt. He did not deny her accusation in the slightest though. He simply hung his head in acceptance to what she proclaimed, as if now was the first time he'd allowed himself to fully accept what he'd done. Hearing this Erik's scowl seemed to further deeper, bringing new meaning the phrase _if looks could kill_. In her fiance's golden eyes she saw a flash like a flame as a brand new fire of hatred ignited within him. Christine could only imagine what dark thoughts were going through his mind in that moment. After all, it was obvious that he'd been through Hell recently, and all that torment had been for a crime he didn't commit. A crime they all knew Raoul to be responsible for now.

"Christine, I had to," Raoul stated plainly, almost as if he were explaining something obvious to a small child, "I had to free you from this-" he gestured towards Erik, "-this monster. I mean, _just look at him_! He's repulsive! I didn't know what he had over you but I knew I had to free you from him. Because from the very beginning I knew that I could provide a better life for you. You just couldn't see it, not there. Not in that theatre. But here you can! Look around you, Christine! I can be a good husband to you. We can still be happy together. Tonight can still be the start of the rest of our lives!"

His voice was hopeful as he shouted, making him seem like a madman as he raved on. Christine stared up into his pleading eyes, eyes for once that didn't hide lies beneath the surface. No, for once everything was out in the open. These eyes were desperate and hungry for her and only her and she could see that now. He was being his true self to her, open about his every desire, but she still couldn't see a see a future for them as he did. She did see, however, how genius his plan had been. It was one that had left little more for error. Things would've worked out perfectly in his favor had his hired help not gone rouge. Erik would've gone away, never to be seen or heard from again and she would've stayed, eventually falling for his charms and gifts, perhaps even falling in love with him. Such a thing could have been possible. Without the vapid swings of anger he could put across a very charming face. When he'd told her earlier they could travel together before settling she had seen a true smile on his face as he pictured such. Somewhere within herself Christine did believe Raoul truly loved her, in his way. But his temper and possessiveness were not qualities she could look past. His merciless killing even less.

"Raoul, looking around myself all I see is pain," she whispered, staring over towards the carnage that had been Erik's very first assailant. The man's face was completely gone, swallowed by a bullet and caved inwards. The hollow mess of skull and eye tissue that was left hanging in the now open skull was enough to give anyone nightmares for years to come. "All I see is death. There is no joy here."

Raoul's eyes watered, and the pistol in his hand shook as he did. "There could have been! Dammit Christine, I tried! I really did. I was even willing to free you!" he yelled as he turned back to face Erik, "To smuggle you out of France! I was going to give you your freedom - for her! To make her happy! That way she would've finally been able to see that I am a good man."

"How can you even think yourself a good man?" Erik questioned with disgust, "You killed a man in cold blood, just to see me locked up! What kind of man would do such a thing?"

"A desperate one!" Raoul shouted, "A man in love!"

He turned back to face Christine. She slid slightly backwards, away from him, frightened by the wild look in his eyes. She tried desperately not to show it though. She tried her best to continue holding strong for Erik's sake. "Christine...I love you. I didn't know if I did before. I couldn't explain the feelings that stirred inside of me. At first I thought it was just infatuation. Feelings I had towards a childhood friend of mine, seeing what a beautiful woman she had become. But I know now it is so much more than that. I know we were meant to be together! All these years I was meant to find you again! And you, my dear, were meant to find me. To be mine. And so you shall be..."

Raoul flexed his finger over the trigger of his gun, hovering it over the thin metal hanger. "Or else he dies."

Christine watched Erik flinch as he anticipated the bullet that would end his life. She knew then that she had to act quickly if she were to spare his life. Reaching down swiftly and hoping she didn't attract attention to herself, she slid her hand underneath her skirt and up her thigh, feeling the handle of the knife she'd concealed earlier touch her fingertips. She was grateful for the first time for the size of her ridiculous dress, for one wouldn't have been able to see what she was doing unless they were standing directly behind her.

"Christine, don't you dare surrender your freedom to this man!" Erik ordered gruffly, "He will kill me either way! You know as well as I that I know too much now for him to let me live. You have to run. Go, my dear, now while you still can! If he loves you as he claims he will not dare to shoot you."

Christine looked up at Erik as she gripped the handle of her knife tightly in her sweaty palm. The anguish in his facial expressions was so plain to see without his mask. It physically looked as if sending her away were the words that would kill him, not the bullet to come. Oh, to see such a look upon his face! He should have known better than to let her see him in such pain. It only sealed the choices she would make soon all the more. There was nothing on Earth that could've chased her away from him then. Nothing Erik nor anyone else could say to her to make her leave his side. Didn't he know by now that she couldn't live without him? He was her life. Theirs was one to share together, or not at all.

"Promise me you won't hurt him," she begged, turning to stare up at Raoul.

"Christine..." Erik attempted to try and speak, but Raoul interrupted him.

"I promise. If you concede to stay then he may go unharmed."

"Christine he's lying!" Erik shouted angrily at her, "I know you aren't this stupid! Go now and leave me!"

A part of Christine's heart wavered, hearing him snap at her in such a crass way. The feeling passed quickly though. She knew he only cared too much and that that was what stemmed the resentment in his voice. It was knowing just how much he cared that she regretted him having to see what she would do next. Sliding the knife from its holster and making sure it was gripped securely in her palm, she folded it neatly between two excess folds of fabric on the outside of her skirt to conceal it from sight. She then used her other hand to guide herself upright, standing and staring at the tense space between the two men. The air there was thick and deadly, and the scent of it was heavy with the iron of the spilled blood surrounding them.

"You swear?" she asked again, softly, trying to pretend her fiance was not staring her down with daggers in his eyes.

"I swear it, Christine," Raoul promised breathlessly.

Christine took a step towards the viscount. A gentle, small and ladylike step. "Know that there must be no more violence, Raoul. For the rest of our lives you have to promise me that this will all be put behind us. You have to promise to be the little boy I knew once more. The sweet, wonderful boy who read me stories in our secret attic. The one who brought me flowers when I was sick and would carry me home and put me to bed when father had to stay late at his shows."

"Oh Lotte...I promise. You'll have that man back. I swear it."

Christine wished she could believe him. She wished for all their sake's she could take him at his word. Perhaps in another life they truly could've been a happy couple. Wealthy aristocrats who took walks together through their gardens and went to gala dinners on Saturdays, reminiscing their childhood adventures while sipping tea with friends. But that could never happen for them in this life and she knew such, no matter how much he himself denied it. She could never truly be his, and he would never be the Raoul she'd once admired ever again. Never again that sweet boy. There was too much blackness in his heart now. He'd tainted his soul with murder and deception and had given up all rights to a happy wife and family.

She closed the small space between them, raising her free hand up to the side of his face to take hold of it tenderly. It was such a smooth face, as if he washed and shaved it daily. His cheekbones were well defined and his feminine features made him look angelic and full of innocence. His smile was sad though as she held his cheek, so sorrowful and yet so joyful all at the same time, just from her simple touch, as if he treasured it. A single tear fell from his eye then, and she could bare no more to look upon his face as she shut her eyes, leaning up to capture his mouth with her own. The kiss seemed to shock both men equally. Raoul staggered backwards, thrown off his guard, no longer in control of the situation, and from afar she could hear Erik gasp in disgust. She could only pray that one day her fiance would forgive her for such a betrayal.

Kissing Raoul was a strange occurrence. His kisses were so much different than those she had previously shared with Erik, who had been the only other kiss she'd ever known. Raoul's lips were smooth and soft like butter, and it was then that Christine realized just how rough Erik's were, cracked in texture from living in such a cool, dark place for the majority of his life. The way Raoul kissed her back was distant at first but quickly became possessive as his free hand came around her waist, pulling her flush to his body. There was a smile on his lips that she could feel against her own, though there was nothing about their physical contact that extracted that same reaction from her. She didn't feel the fire of her fiance's passion in this kiss, didn't free the desperate need for more as she did with her true lover. She simply felt dirty for being so disloyal before his eyes. Disgusted by her own lips, that she was allowing them to be kissed by another's other than her betrothed.

She pulled back, tears swelling in her eyes as she finalized her decision in her mind. Those tears spilled forward down her face as she looked upon Raoul's, which had softened almost to a childlike wonder as he stared down at her with all the adoration and devotion in the world. She shook her head as she cried, shook away the memories of his sweet youthful smiles and the small yellow flower he'd once given her. She banished from her mind the image of him dripping wet as he held out the soaking wet red scarf she had so carelessly dropped into the sea. It was difficult indeed to separate the man before her from the memories she held so dearly in her heart. But this Raoul was a different Raoul than that one had been. She twisted her face in despair knowing that somehow she was partially to blame for what he had become. She wished they had never met again, wished she could simply hold onto to that last memory she'd had before, of him as a boy. Of the gentle kiss he'd placed upon her cheek as she'd wept her goodbyes to him, her and her father leaving their home by the sea on that crisp autumn morning so many lifetimes ago.

A part of her knew the memories of tonight would haunt her forever, slowly erasing the older, more precious ones over time. She knew in time she would only recall Raoul as the monster she faced down tonight. As the murderer who had flipped her world upside down and nearly ruined all of their lives out of greed and lust. She was done being his prisoner though and done seeing Erik nearly killed before her eyes. She wanted her life back, wanted everything back to the way it was before. She loosened her left hand from her dress, letting the heavy fabric fall away to reveal her knife.

She then plunged it forward, straight into Raoul's stomach. The viscount's eyes went wide as he stared down at her in shock, those two beautiful blue orbs flashing with betrayal and grief all at once. Part of her wanted to cry out in despair over what she had done, but that part of her had such a small voice that the urge was quickly and easily silenced. She felt her face grow hard soon after as she remembered how Raoul had struck her. How he had caused Erik to endure such atrocious living conditions and fight for his life time and time again this night. How he had subdued her into his house with the intentions of bedding her like she was simply property to be purchased and claimed. Her words were not her own then, her voice stemming from a place deep within her as she passed a point of no return and let him know exactly what it was she was thinking.

"I am the mistress of my own actions," she told him in a low volume, only for his ears to hear, feeling his blood run over her hands, "I am not yours to bargain with. I am my own woman. I will live my life how I choose, with whom I choose. And you, Raoul...you can burn in Hell. Give my sincerest regards to Buquet."

With those final words she pushed forward on her knife, sending the viscount stumbling backwards where he fell to the floor with a shrill cry. He coughed slightly, a thin trail of blood falling from the corner of his lips. The lips she had just kissed only seconds ago. He then reached forward with his free hand and pulled her blade from his abdomen. When he did the bleeding increased to a violent amount, running free down his waistcoat. Christine could only imagine what she could have struck inside of him for so much blood to be spilling out. It flowed faster than the Seine itself and Raoul panicked, clutching his stomach in a tight grip that did little to help. He looked up at her, his hurt expression turning to one of pure hatred and loathing. As his skin began to pale he narrowed his eyes, sitting up the best he could in his dying state.

"If I'm going to Hell," he said, his bloody teeth bared, "then I'm taking you with me."

With his last ounce of strength Christine watched with wide eyes as he raised his arm upwards. She was staring directly into the barrel of his gun when it fired off, the sound echoing for what must have been miles. She heard Erik proclaim her name loudly as she fell to the ground, a cry she would never forget that seemed to be the very sound of his poor soul shattering. Following the sound of the shot she felt a fire burning deep within the muscle of her thigh, hotter than the sun itself and sharper than any knife or pin. She cried out something animalistic towards the ceiling in response to the pain. Erik's arms were encircling her then and in a dazed, hazy state she looked down to see a dark red stain quickly spreading throughout the fabric of her skirt.

Within seconds the room around her began to grow cold.

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	39. His Fallen Angel

His Fallen Angel

1871

 _Erik_

Christine had been shot.

Erik cried out her name as she began to fall, running to her side and catching her just before she struck the floor, holding her thin frame tightly in his arms. Her eyes were frantic as she stared straight past him down at the blood that was quickly spreading over the fabric of her skirt. Erik skimmed his eyes downward over the the thick pink fabric in a panic, trying to figure out where the bullet had entered, but the skirt was so large that the hole itself seemed concealed by the many folds. He laid her down as gently as he could to get a better look. That small motion caused her to cry out as the shock of what had happened fell away and she was once more brought back to herself, fully aware of what was happening and fully aware of the extent of her injury.

Erik took a handful of her skirt in each hand as she continued to shout, ripping the fabric from the base of the hem upwards and casting it to either side. The viscount had fired his gun from a dangerously close range and the effect of such a shot was gruesome to behold. Her entire thigh seemed to have been ripped open by the cavitation alone. The gaping wound looked almost unreal, wide and raged and deep. The rim of it had tissue and muscle hanging down below, those thin ribbons of mortality and gore so out of place on her soft, cream skin. The only thing keeping him even a little bit steady at such a sight was the fact that the blood ran smoothly from the wound and did not spurt. Thankfully the idiot had not hit her femoral artery. If he had Christine would already be dead. It would have only taken seconds.

Erik grabbed the fabric he had torn away and balled it up in his fists, pressing it down onto the wound with as much pressure as he could. Christine screamed as he did so, a sound that ripped his heart in two. It was truly a wail, a plea for God Himself to cease her torment. He murmured apologies to her the best he could, trying to explain to her that he _had_ to do this, all the while struggling to maintain his own composure knowing he was causing her to suffer all the more. The pressure didn't stop the bleeding though, and so with a heavy heart he leaned forward and pressed down even harder, causing her screaming to increase as she struggled to catch her breath between each desperate cry for him to stop.

"The b-belt," he heard her whimper in a quiet plea as her screaming finally died down. She twisted her upper body to the side in pain as she spoke, tears streaming down from her eyes over her flustered cheeks.

Erik drew his brows in, confused by what she was trying to tell him. Then he noticed a dark brown leather strap strapped high up on her thigh, peaking out from the remnants of her skirt. With one hand he moved aside more of the fabric to look closer. Above the belt there were jagged crisscrossed cuts spread over the majority of her fair upper thigh, with thin trails of dried blood in streaks below it. Guilt once more ripped through him as he realized she'd been concealing the knife she'd used to kill the viscount for hours now at her own expense. How he had ever doubted her loyalty he'd never comprehend. She'd been planning to escape ever since the beginning. His brave little warrior. She'd never given up hope in them. He grabbed the end of the belt and pulled it tight until the skin below began to purple. To his relief the blood flow seemed to lessen beneath the soggy fabric bandage. As he went back to applying pressure on it though he noticed Christine's skin paling to a stark ivory, her cries growing softer and softer. It was then that he realized just how much blood she had lost. All around them the floor was a puddle, her precious life in pools beneath his knees.

"Christine? Christine, you stay awake. Don't you dare close your eyes on me. Christine, can you hear me?"

Erik felt himself crying, saw his tears falling down onto his overlapped hands. He looked around the disheveled room in desperation, not knowing what he could do to further help her. The guards as well as the owner of the home were dead, and though the viscount's mansion was on the main road it would take him at least ten minutes to run for help. He didn't believe Christine had ten minutes though. Certainly less if he left her side and she continued to bleed. Was there nothing he could do? She needed a hospital, and quickly. He wondered though if she was even stable enough to move.

"Erik?"

He lifted his face from her bleeding leg to look up to her's. Had she just spoken to him? Was she still conscious? He saw her eyes open once more as she took a deep, trembling breath. He felt truly astonished by her strength and resilience as she did so, relief spreading through him. _That's my girl_ , he thought proudly, su _ch a strong woman. The strongest I've ever known._

"Christine, I've got you. I'm here," he reassured her.

"I'm so cold."

Erik choked on his sobs, struggling to give her a smile of encouragement. She was still with him and he had to be strong for her sake. He couldn't afford for her to see just how badly he was breaking down when she needed him so.

"It's going to be alright Christine. It isn't that bad, really. You're going to be just fine my love. Just please, stay awake. Alright?"

"I love you, Erik. I want you to know that. To always remember that."

Erik felt his breathing cease as he watched her eyelids flutter, her long lashes shutting once more to touch her cheeks as her voice softened.

"Don't do this to me, Christine. Please, don't say goodbye to me...this is not going to be where our story ends. I won't let it! Do you hear me? I'm not going to let you die. Not here, not in this place."

Christine opened her eyes once more to meet his as he spoke. Those eyes were so beautiful. He prayed this would not be the last time he saw them. Just in case though he found himself memorizing every detail of them. As he did he noticed her slowly raising her left hand off the floor. With great effort she laid it atop both of his. The added weight atop her dressing caused her pain, he could tell from the way she winced, and yet still she smiled back at him. A small, sad smile.

"Erik, I think you're beautiful," she whispered, "Have I told you that before?"

Erik could not believe his ears as she spoke to him. He was simply frozen, staring down at their bloody hands and then staring back up into the eyes he loved so much.

"You are, truly," she continued, speaking quietly like a caress in the night, "I've always been able to see it and I wish others could too. I wish they could look past what their eyes show, to your beauty underneath. I'm glad I was blessed with the chance to."

Christine was the kindest soul Erik had ever come to know, in life and all of literature alike. The world simply couldn't afford to lose a heart like hers. It needed her to counterbalance the cruelty of man. To steal her away now would be a crime against humanity itself. Erik pleaded with God to look down upon his Christine and show mercy. To take him instead. After all, it should have been him in the first place. She should have run, dammit! She should've fled this accursed place! But she had stayed...for him. She had saved his life, and in doing so had had to take another's. His poor, pure Christine had had to kill for him. Had that ruined her heart, her soul? Had saving him damned her?

"You are too kind to me, my darling. I don't deserve you. I never did."

She seemed not to hear him now, her eyes once more closing as her body began to shiver violently. Erik panicked seeing her shake, only still slightly calmed by the pounding femoral pulse he felt beneath his palms. He knew the shock of blood loss was setting in though and that if she fell prey to it she stood no chance. He once more glanced around the room but there was nothing within sight to cover her with to keep her warm. He crouched forward then, leaning over her in an attempt to at least block some of the chill that still crept in through the broken window. He didn't even feel that icy air anymore through the thin fabric he wore. He was so numb by now that there was no pain. And if he froze now then so be it. He would still keep her warm the best he could.

He didn't know what else to do though. There was no one around for at least a mile and his beloved was fading fast before his eyes. He stared down once more at the small hand that rested atop his. Her engagement ring was covered in blood, it's gems glistening like rubies now as it sparkled, smiling up at him. That ring upon her finger seemed to be their only bright beacon on that dark night, for their love had still burned bright through and through no matter the trials they'd been forced to face. If she passed now, he thought with a heavy heart, at least she would pass loved. Loved more dearly than any man could ever love a woman. He had to let her know such.

"Christine, if you can still hear me I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that you are all that matters to me in this lifetime and that I will love you forever, wherever we may go from here. And...and if you need to rest now I understand. I don't want to see you in pain, my love. I never have. Ever since you were young all I ever wanted was to keep you safe. To shield you from the horrors of this world. On that note though I'm afraid I've failed you. I let my guard down - I fooled myself into thinking I could love you and protect you all the same. But I've learned now that a man in love is a man blinded by it. I couldn't see the dangers. I could only see you, my Christine, shining like a fallen star everywhere I looked. An angel blessed to me by God himself. Please...please forgive me for not keeping you safe. I tried as hard as I could. My best just wasn't good enough..."

As he finished speaking he watched in horror as her small icy hand slipped from atop his and hit the hardwood floors with the softest of thuds. That barely audible sound seemed louder than thunder in his ears though. He cried out, pressing deeper into her wound, searching desperately for the pulse he'd felt only moments ago. He cried out pleas and bargains to God. He promised his life, his soul, his everything just to find that heartbeat once more beneath her fragile skin. But a minute passed by, longer than an eternity, and then another. He felt nothing.

His Christine was dead.

She had died because of him.

Him! A plague upon this earth! A carcass of filth! Who was he to have dared to touch someone so divine in the first place? Why, he should never have gone to her all those years ago! He should have known well enough to just stay in the shadows, to appreciate her beauty and voice from afar. If he had then perhaps she would still be alive. He could have seen her grow old and stun the world for many years to come. But no, he had dared to open Pandora's box. He had given into the temptation of the forbidden fruit and spoken to her, beckoned her from her place in the light, pulling her into his dark world and poisoning her with his foolish love.

All he'd ever wanted was to give her all the glories of heaven and yet he had all but delivered her to the devil's door himself. He wasn't deserving of the love she had bestowed upon him. He'd hadn't been worthy of her sweet kisses or tender touches. She had not been meant for him and God Himself had now reclaimed His most sacred angel, calling her back to Him and reminding Erik that she had never truly been his to begin with.

Erik's knees shook underneath himself as he all but collapsed, releasing his hold on her makeshift bandage to pull her up into his arms as he wept for the very angels themselves. Such a treasure they would be joined by soon. Such an angel his Christine would be amongst them, her pristine voice their borrowed song all along. Knowing she was no longer in pain he rejoiced. Still though his greedy soul pleaded for her to return to him. To give him just a few moments more with her. He wanted to see her smile, wanted to hear her laugh. He needed to! He couldn't go on without her! He raised one of his hands up into her hair, crying out her name, hoping that from somewhere beyond she could still somehow hear him.

But she stayed quiet and cold, a corpse in his arms. A shell of the woman he had loved. A ghost to a grieving phantom.

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 **Remember to review!**


	40. The Daroga

The Daroga

1871

 _Nadir_

The front door to the mansion was slightly ajar, swinging in the breeze with squeaking hinges. And if there was one thing Nadir Khan had learned in his forty-four years of life it was that doors left open in the middle of the night were a very bad omen. Behind him he could hear Darius, his second in command, following him up the drive, his footsteps trodding heavily through the deep snow. The younger man seemed to not want to venture any further, stopping several meters behind him. Nadir wondered if perhaps he should have left his friend behind to instead further question the young lad and lady who had come knocking at their station door just an hour previous.

The two had been dressed all in black, the simplest style of formal wear suitable for the servants and maids of the upper Parisian class system. The girl had been in tears, hysterical as she described the horrors taking place in the mansion she proclaimed to be her home. She had spun what had seemed like a wild tale, stating that her employer, a monsieur Raoul de Changy, had gone mad. She'd all but screamed at him that the body count there could be rising even as she spoke. Nadir had thought her first to be a loon, a raving woman escaped and on the loose from Bedden Asylum. Her counterpart confirmed the story though, speaking quietly to him as he pulled him aside and explained things in much more rational manner. He'd started by introducing himself as Marius, a young man who had been working for his master for two years now. He spoke of how M. de Changy had developed an unhealthy obsession with a singer at the Opera Populaire, going as far as to kill a stagehand where she worked and frame the woman's fiance for it, kidnapping her only days later.

It was the part about the stagehand's murder that had piqued Nadir's interest and actually made him pay attention to their words. He'd known right away then Christine Daae to be the woman they claimed to be kidnapped. Her guardian had come to the police station earlier that day in hysterics over the fact that she'd gone missing from the hospital she was being treated at. With her fiancee sentenced to die though Nadir had figured the young lady had simply desired some peace and solitude, and had told the woman she would not be declared missing for at least another forty-eight hours. When Marius had stated her to be at the Changy residence however he'd had wished he had started investigating sooner. Especially with the danger the two servants described.

Nadir had gathered only a small group of men to go investigate the situation. He'd never been one to favor large command, not in Paris nor Persia where he'd first begun his work. No, he only needed a few loyal men to keep to his aide. He found that too many were a distraction and couldn't function properly as a unit. He'd learned that the hard way many years ago in the desert when his band of twelve had been ambushed in a drug raid. Nearly all of them had died that night, Allah bless their resting souls. Perhaps if they had been fewer they would not have been detected so easily.

"Daroga, I smell blood," Darius said wearily, staring blankly through the doorway. Darius had been but fourteen years old during that fateful raid, and one of only six to make it out alive. As a result he was now a skittish and fearful man. A good officer, true, but always careful of his footing. Nadir had pitied him greatly back then, offering to take him alongside him in his quest to Paris four years ago. Darius had been grateful for the new opportunity and still followed his orders to this day, having joined the Paris police force at the same time he had.

"As do I. But I hear nothing so perhaps the fighting is over and done. I will go ahead. You tell the others to stay back for now."

Darius nodded his head in respect to his order and went back to the curb of the road where the other two officers stood awaiting their orders. The three men were speaking in hushed tones as Nadir reached into his side holster and pulled out a small curved blade, gripping the handle tightly. Such a a quiet and undetectable weapon, but deadly if thrown the right way. It had been his weapon of choice for many years now, his aim ever true whenever he found he needed it to be. Pistols be damned.

The smell of blood grew strong and foul as Nadir entered the home and made his way through the foyer of the mansion. The lanterns around him still burned brightly, the dining hall to his left still set as though a meal had been taking place when tonight's events had first transpired. He walked past the center stairwell and started down a wide hardwood hall that ended in double wide doors. That was where the scent seemed strongest. He propped the doors open wide to reveal the mansion's library, the scene of the crime bared before him.

Nadir would never forget the sight of that room. Bodies littered the floor, some apparent to have died of gunfire and others stabbed; all dead beyond a doubt. One man had even been impaled, his one hand still gripping the dowel protruding from his chest. Furniture had been overturned and broken in the bustle and the largest window nearby had been shattered. Books of all sorts lay about in forgotten piles all over, spines bent every which way. Nadir swallowed hard. He had not seen this degree of violence since his days back in Persia. The obvious carnage was not the sight that would stay with him for years to come though. No, what would stay with him forever was the sight of a man kneeling in the center of that room, clutching tightly the deceased body of a fair and beautiful woman.

He had no doubt in his mind that the dead woman was Christine Daae, the missing and supposedly kidnapped soprano. He also knew, right away, the identity of the person holding her, even though the man did not face him. The grey uniform he wore in tatters was apparent to have been issued at La Sante, Paris' federal prison, and if Nadir was right in his guessing, and he usually was, then the man was Erik Destler, the woman's fiancee who had been put on trial for murder and sentenced to die. Only hours ago the alarms from the prison had been deafening. Word had reached Nadir quickly of his escape. The manhunt for the escaped alleged killer was underway this very moment, searching for he who had fled before he left the country altogether.

But it appeared that the man had never even left the city. He had stayed put, running to search for his fiancee. Nadir wondered if she had died before or after he'd found her. Whether or not Raoul de Changy or he himself was the murderer Nadir could no longer tell. Most days he trusted the justice of the city to deal its sentences fairly. The guilty were almost always foul and the innocent obvious. But the prisoner before him did not seem like a murderer, merely a man grieving. A man so lost in heartbreak that he hadn't even heard him enter the room. He watched the way he wept, his hand twisted up in the woman's dark hair, his face buried in her chest as he whispered soft pleas to her. The entire picture was all too hauntingly familiar. Fourteen years ago Nadir himself had knelt just the same, clutching onto the lifeless body of his beloved wife Rookheeya as she lay dying, having just finished giving birth to his son Reza. He'd lost Reza as well only six years later. It was their deaths and ghosts that had chased him from his homeland. He had come to Paris to escape them and start anew, trying to hold onto only the happiest of their shared memories as he began his life over.

"Monsieur Destler, I presume?"

The man stiffened at the sound of Nadir's voice but did not turn around to acknowledge his presence. After a moment though he slowly lowered the body of his fiancee to the ground, gently, as if she were made of glass. "I have no fight left in me. If you are here to kill me then do so. Believe me, it's more than welcome."

The bitterness in M. Destler's voice was dry, cold and distant. Nadir had no doubt such a man would welcome a bullet to end his misery. He was needed alive though to help piece together the elaborate crime that had taken place here tonight. As was his duty, Nadir should have arrested him then and there. The death toll in the room was high, and even if the man hadn't been a murderer before he certainly was now. The chief of police sensed that there was more to the story though and hesitated.

"This is Christine Daae?" he asked in confirmation, staring down at the pale corpse on the floor.

" _Was_."

Nadir's eyes trailed over the bloody puddle surrounding the woman's body. He was surprised that such a small lady had even had this much blood within her to begin with. Her skin was marble and glossy in death, her eyes shut and her hair fanned out around her heart-shaped face. In a gruesome way it was almost beautiful, as if she were the subject of a deranged artist's finest painting. As he studied her form he saw Destler reach forward, taking hold of her left hand and running his thumb over the ring on her finger as he once more hung his head in defeat. Nadir almost felt his own eyes water then as he felt a sort of kindred brotherhood for the man. For he knew this pain, it haunted him still, every night as he lay awake in his room. Rookheeya had been his sun and stars, a gentle and soft spoken woman with a fire she'd saved only for him. He missed her so, more than a decade later, every day more and more.

Nadir stepped closer, still holding his knife tightly in case the distraught man turned on him, suicidal and truly seeking death. He didn't moved though. He only wept. Nadir sighed, sheathing his knife and placing a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

"I too lost my wife," he said quietly, almost not believing he was sharing something so personal with criminal, "and so I know the extent of your pain to be great, my brother. I will of course allow you however much time you need to say your goodbyes. I am with the police though, understand that, and so when you are finished there is much we must discuss about what has happened here tonight."

"Thank you."

Nadir knelt down at Christine's side, placing a single hand on her cold shoulder, speaking a silent prayer for her. It was a great tragedy in his opinion whenever someone so young passed away. So many women and children alike were sent to heaven long before their time these days, so many years of wanderlust lost before their dreams had even begun. He prayed her spirit was warm and safe at last, that her final moments had been freeing, and that she had known just how much she had been loved, by both the injured man at her side and her guardian alike.

" _Assalaamu 'alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah_ ," he whispered to her, honoring her the final rites of his people that he'd had to recite so many times now in his long, pain-filled lifetime.

He went to take his hand away then when he stopped, sensing a motion beneath his fingertips. He looked down once more at the corpse of the soprano, thinking he had lost his mind. Yet there it was again. The smallest notion of an ascending and descending movement. That of shallow breathing. With haste Nadir leaned overtop the woman, moving aside her bloody hair and pressing his fingers hard against the side of her throat. He felt Destler tensing up beside him, seemingly aghast that he was daring to touch her. The man would surely forgive him though if he were to find...yes, there it was. The faintest flicker of a pulse. Nadir praised Allah and turned towards the desolate man.

"She's still alive," he whispered to him in astonishment, "This woman is alive!"

Hearing his words Destler turned to face him at last, causing Nadir to flinch back in surprise at his ghastly face. He'd read in his file that he was deformed but to him that simple sentence seemed to have been a grave understatement. Medically fascinating to say the least, the one half of the man's face seemed as though it had died many years ago, its corpse-like features a terrifying thing for a religious man to behold. Nadir quickly averted his eyes to avoid disrespect, instead pushing himself from the ground to stand and racing towards the front door. What a sight he must have been then, covered in blood and out of breath. His men turned white as spirits before his eyes. Even Darius' dark skin seemed to pale to a sickly shade.

"Come quickly!" He ordered, "No questions! We must hurry!"

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 **How can you write a phanfic WITHOUT the Persian? Like, come on people. I really wanted to introduce him earlier but using the ALW universe as my main prompt that was rather difficult since he's often left out there. I also really liked my original character D. Larson and didn't want to overshadow him. Anyways, I hope you liked him finally showing up in this story! Nadir to the rescue!**

 **Nicole**


	41. Bloodties

Bloodties

1871

 _Erik_

Erik sat slumped against the wall just outside the operating room Christine had been taken into, his head between his knees. He pulled the coat the Persian officer had given him tightly around his body, the soaked prison garb he still wore underneath continuing to chill his bones. He still couldn't believe he had thought her to be dead and now couldn't bare to leave her even a moment out of guilt, staying just beyond the door she dwelled behind. Staying so close he could hear the murmurings of the nurses and surgeon inside, though not clearly enough to know whether or not things were going well or horribly wrong. His fingers twitched impatiently, his temper flaring and his agitation growing with each passing second. It had physically caused him pain to release her to their care and he wished more than anything to be a fly on the wall in that damned locked room.

"Erik! My God, what happened?"

He lifted his head at the sound of his name, seeing Adelaide walking as quickly as she could down the hospital hall, leaning heavily on her cane. Meg was not far behind her, her eyes puffy and red with fear. It was apparent that she'd been crying on the way over. One of the officers nodded to him from down the hall as the women approached. Erik returned the gesture, glad the Persian had sent for them as he'd asked. Christine needed her family here with her in this hour. His strength alone was only so much, and was fading fast with each passing minute. He'd refused to seek treatment until she awoke, instead still sitting soaked in blood, terrifying every nurse that passed him with his exposed deformity and murderous appearance. He couldn't care less though what people thought of him though. Let them all see the Devil's Child. Christine was all that mattered.

"The viscount happened," he stated dryly, straining to stand. He quickly recounted all that had happened from his perspective of last night, watching the two women drain of color at his horrid tale. It was the same story he had told the Persian officer only minutes ago, and the reaction they had was just the same. They were just as loaded with questions, overwhelming him all at once with their cries and gasps. When at last he grew tired of their conversation he tried to send them away. Adelaide would have nothing of it though, staring down at his pant legs in disgust. She reached forward then and pulled aside the Persian's coat, revealing the damage done to him in the fights.

"Erik, you need to be treated! Look at you!" she proclaimed, gesturing to his appearance, "It's a wonder you aren't dead!"

"Better for me to die than her," he mumbled, closing the coat back up.

Adelaide's face turned red and she slammed her cane to the floor in frustration, the sound echoing throughout the hall. "Don't you speak like that, Erik! Don't you dare! I won't listen to your self-pitying nonsense, not today! Now you go and get yourself looked at, because I refuse to bury either of you! Do I make myself clear?"

Erik sighed, realizing she was right as usual. Infected wounds would only cause him trouble down the road. And if he were out of commission then who would care for his Christine?

"You won't leave her, will you?"

"Of course not. We will stay right here until you return," Adelaide promised.

Erik trusted his sister not to leave the surgical wing. He made his way down to the nearest desk, causing the nurse behind the counter to jump back in shock. With frightful eyes she asked what he needed and he requested the care of doctor Larson. No doubt any other physician would refuse to look him in the eye. At least if his friend were here tonight he knew he would be taken care of quickly and professionally. The sooner the better too. He did not like leaving Christine, even with the Girys posted.

"I-I'll go and get him," the nurse stuttered, relieved to be given the chance to run from him. She rounded the corner of her desk and made her way down a thin corridor. Within a moment Erik could hear George's low voice questioning her in a panicked tone. Who knew what the young woman was saying about him to get such a rise from the doctor. She probably was asking him for security to take him away this very moment. The American soon came into view, stopping a ways away to simply stare at him. His coat seemed disheveled from working late, and his glasses were sliding down his nose in result from his abrupt halt.

"Erik? Christ have mercy...come. This way. Quickly now."

Erik followed the man as turned into the nearest room, shutting the door behind himself after they'd both entered. When he turned around to face him he was sweating, his ginger hairline glistening as he propped his spectacles back into place.

"Are you insane, Erik? You're a wanted convict on the run! Did you really think a public hospital the best place to hide?"

"I'm not in hiding," Erik stated flippantly, "I'm here with the police. There's an officer here who believes my innocence. Tonight was not without complications though. Now, if you don't mind there's a bullet in my shoulder that I'm getting rather irritated with."

Erik didn't wait for a response from the man, discarding his coat and sitting down in the exam chair. As he looked up George had stepped closer, his eyes growing wide. Erik himself followed the doctor's wandering eyes, glancing first to his left and then to his right, taking in the many wounds on his arms and the bold six-six-six now forever imprinted into his skin by that slime of a prison tagger. After a moment, his friend's gaze finally came to rest not on his shoulder, but his face. He studied it with utter wonder, cocking his head to the side as his pupils darted in a frenzy, following the ridges and twists of his flesh.

"From birth," Erik explained, uneasy under his friend's scrutinizing stare.

"Yes...a birth defect. I always wondered but never dared to ask. Well then, let's see. This here-" he pointed to the open wound Samuel's gun had caused, "-will be difficult to stitch. It needs to be closed though. The risk of infection here is probably much greater than anywhere else on your body."

"The bullet first," Erik requested, as politely as he could through clenched teeth.

George nodded his head and left the room with haste, returning quickly with a nurse by his side and a large carted medical tray. George told him it would take a moment for another nurse to bring something for the pain, but Erik simply waved that notion away like he would an annoying stagehand. He didn't like the thought of not being there when the surgeon finished with Christine and so he requested they begin immediately. He had endured far greater pains in his life; simple medical procedures were nothing in comparison to the bones he'd had broken countless times.

The bullet was thankfully not deep and within a few antagonizing minutes he watched as George extracted the small piece of lead from his arm and dropped it onto his tray. He washed the wound with antiseptic then and stitched it quickly with neat precision while his coworker made quick work of cleaning the cuts on his arms, all while avoiding his eyes. He didn't blame the girl. On a normal day he tried his best to save people the horror of having to look upon his face. She continued to work diligently until she stopped at his neck, looking sickly as she stared at his face from below. George noticed her disgust and dismissed her quickly, his voice gentle but firm with order. When she was gone he picked up her cloth and began to dab at Erik's skin himself, gently cleansing the area.

"That right there...that's why you where the mask," George figured.

"Yes."

"And Christine...has she seen what lies beneath?"

 _I think you're beautiful_. That's what she had told him as she'd laid dying in his arms. He would never forget such words. He cherished them more than she would ever know. Christine had been first woman to ever look upon his true face and not want to run, the first to touch him and kiss him and make him feel like an actual human being deserving of such affections. Yes, she had seen his face. She'd seen right past it into his very soul. He nodded his head once, watching George muse over the fact. Surely the man thought her just an insane as he once had.

"She's down the hall," Erik said after a quiet minute, taking the subject off himself, "She was shot, saving my life."

"Christine was shot?" There was honest despair in the doctor's voice as he dropped his cloth to the tray in surprise. He shook his head in grief and turned to lace more thread through his needle as Erik felt tears sting at the back of his eyes once more.

"They don't know if she'll make it," he continued softly, feeling the first prick of George's needle through the paper thin flesh of his cheek.

"She will," George stated firmly, no doubt in his voice as he worked, "She's a strong woman, your Christine. I told you that once before and you agreed without a moment's hesitation. Nothing had changed since then. Surely we both know by now there isn't anything that woman can't withstand."

"I can only hope so."

Erik lost count of the multitude of odd angled stitches George had to sew together to fix his face. The man kept having to backtrack, Erik's skin ripping under the tension of the stitches multiple times. Mere minutes may have turned into an hour by the time he was done working. When he finally finished he pulled back and looked nervous almost, as if he wasn't sure of his own hand, the very hand that had stitched with shoulder in mere seconds. He tossed the needle down to his tray in frustration and sighed, pursing his lips.

"It won't heal well. You'll probably have a nasty scar there your whole life. I had to stretch skin that should never have been stretched. It's going to be a very fragile area. You'll have to protect it to keep it from reopening while it heals."

Erik nearly laughed. His mask was plenty protection and he preferred to keep his face concealed anyways. The doctor informed him though that dressings would be more suitable for at least the next two weeks, keeping sweat from getting in the wound. After he had finished covering his skin with gauze he placed his wounded arm into a sling for support. That alone took away much of the stiffness from his gunshot wound and a sigh of relief involuntarily escaped his lips as the pressure lifted away.

Finished with his work, George left the room, returning quickly with pills for him to take for pain. Erik gratefully swallowed them, noticing also a tightly wrapped bundle tucked underneath George's arm. When he inquired what it was his friend stated it was the extra clothes he kept at the hospital in case his got ruined. He offered them to Erik's use, setting them down by his side. Erik didn't think they were anywhere near the same size, the doctor being shorter and wider than he, but took the clothing with many thanks anyways, grateful to finally discard the bloody ones he still wore.

As it was, his height difference made up for much of the width difference in the the two of them, the plain black doctor's blouse tucking in easily to the pants to help both pieces fit almost perfectly. He had to admit that although he was felt terrible, the difference in the change of clothing felt like a blessing. For a moment, in clean clothing and less pain, he could almost pretend that this past week had never happened. It had though, the small mirror on the side wall of the exam room proved that. He took a minute to glance at it, looking at his profile. His deformity was almost completely concealed by the large bandages on his face, the only part visible the segment above his eye. The other side of his face simply looked worn, as if in the past few hours he'd aged a great many years.

Grateful to be ambidextrous, he pushed open the exam room door and gave a nod of thanks to his friend before setting back down towards the surgical wing. As he approached he saw the surgeon now standing outside the room, speaking in a hushed voice to the Girys. His white coat was stained red and his ancient face looked exhausted. Erik panicked and ran up to them, desperate to hear what he had to say.

"What's going on? How is she?" he asked in a rush, grabbing the man's arm to get his attention.

The surgeon turned to him and gave him a once over, flicking his hand away in annoyance. "Excuse me monsieur, you are?"

"That woman's fiance," Erik spat bitterly, "Now how is she?"

The surgeon sighed. "We were able to stop the bleeding and stitch up the wound. The only problem now is the amount of blood she lost. I'm afraid we need to give her a blood transfusion, and soon. Otherwise we may not be able to stabilize her much longer."

"Take mine," Erik offered without a second of hesitation, holding out his arm. Hell, if it would help her then she could have every last drop in his body.

The doctor stared at him wearily, holding up his palm. "I'm afraid you aren't a good candidate, monsieur. You see transfusions are quite dangerous, sometimes resulting in the death of the patient should their body reject the foreign blood. Without a transfusion though I think it very likely she will die anyways. So, in her best interest a family member's blood would be the best choice - a parent preferably. That's where we have the most success."

"But she has no family. She was orphaned as a child," Erik explained to the man in despair.

The doctor looked disappointed in this fact, staring off into the distance as if he were raking his brain for the next best possible solution. Erik himself lost much faith in that look; as did Meg, the young girl weeping into her hands as she turned to step away, struggling to compose herself. Almost a solid five minutes passed in silence, save for Meg's weeping, before Adelaide shamefully raised her head and touched the surgeon's forearm with a delicate touch.

"What about a sister?" she whispered with tears in her eyes. The words seemed physically painful for her to speak aloud. Erik turned to her in shock and revulsion. A sister? Out there somewhere Christine had family? Why would something like that have been kept from her all these years? Was the woman insane? A criminal? Adelaide had only brought one little girl back to the opera house with her all those years ago. At least as far as he knew.

"If that's the only option we have then I would think that best, yes. How do we contact such a sister?" the doctor inquired.

Adelaide turned to face her daughter, who shrunk back into herself, looking up at her mother with large, questioning doe eyes. Erik couldn't understand what Adelaide was thinking in that moment when she reached out to hold the side of her daughter's cheek. He could only guess. And his guess was horrifying.

"My darling girl, I'm so terribly sorry...I should have told you long ago..." she whispered.

"Mother, I don't understand," Meg stated, taking a step back away from her, "Do you mean to tell me...?"

"Your father, my little Meg. He was Christine's father as well. We were young and I was foolish. I promise, I will tell you all you want to know when this is over. But right now there isn't time for me to explain my past actions. Will you do this? Not for me but for Christine? It may be her only chance."

Erik nearly fell to the floor in shock, realizing all those years ago Gustave Daae to be the heartbreak that had left his adopted sister with child. Had the man even known what he'd done? How could he have abandoned her like he did! He'd always pictured Christine's father to be a kind soul like she, but to leave a young woman the way he did...why, it was a good thing he was already dead because Erik was furious.

"Erik, I see the anger in your face. Know that it is gravely misplaced. I loved Gustave yes, but he was not for me. I fully accepted the consequences of what I had done. He never even knew about Meg until he lay dying."

Erik ignored her words in frustration, turning instead to look towards the consequences of her one-night stand nearly two decades ago, watching Meg wring her hands together in deep thought. There was a dark part of him that didn't want to wait for her to voluntarily give the blood that could save his fiancee's life. The demon side of him simply wanted to take it. He silenced that inner voice though as he saw Meg begin to cry. She cried with a smile on her face, her eyes gleaming with love and pride.

"My sister..." she wept, "I have a sister! Yes please, I want to help her! I'll do whatever I can. What must we do?"

The surgeon opened the door to the operating room for the three of them to enter. Erik could barely keep himself from collapsing when he took in the sight of Christine. He'd expected her to look better after they'd fixed her leg, not worse. And yet there she lay, bare but a simple sheet to cover her, still as deathly pale as she had been before, only now clean, the blood from her hair rinsed away and the scrapes on her arms cleaned and covered.

The surgeon led Meg to her right side where he sat her upon a tall chair. The nurse in the room then began assembling the transfusion equipment as Erik slowly made his way towards her opposite side, taking a chair for himself the same height as her bed and scooting it close. He needed to sit, for his head was spinning. He lifted his hand up to touch her arm gently, his fingertips barely grazing her skin. Such a simple touch chilled him to his very bones. His beloved felt like a nothing more than a lifeless body. A shell. His eyes swelled once more with tears that he blinked away quickly. He resolved to not lose faith in her recovery just yet. To have faith that he would not lose her again. Soon she would be right as rain. She would dance and sing with him once more, and they could pick up their shattered lives were they left off, piecing things back together as best they could.

"Is this going to hurt?" he heard Meg ask as the nurse held up a large needle before her eyes. Erik swallowed hard, clenching the hand in his sling tightly. Two of the four of their broken family had been shot tonight and the prima ballerina had the _audacity_ to complain about the simple prick of a needle. It pissed him off to no end, but he kept his face calm and collected knowing Adelaide was in the room. The nurse explained to Meg that it would be a quick prick as she prepared the sight for the sterile insertion. Adelaide held her daughter's free hand tightly as the nurse inserted the needle. Meg flinched hard, but to Erik's relief he saw red begin to run down the tubing and Meg fall into a frozen state, not disrupting the line in the least. The doctor moved to connect the tubing into the needle already in Christine's arm. Erik held his breath nearly the entire time, waiting for the man to speak.

"It's flowing fine," the surgeon confirmed, much to his relief. He turned to his nurse. "Run it fifteen minutes."

The nurse nodded in agreement and for the next quarter of the hour the room stayed mostly silent, save for the sound of Meg kicking her feet against the leg of her chair every few minutes in an attempt to reposition herself more comfortably. Erik noticed that during the time the transfusion took place the ballerina did nothing but stare down at her arm in morbid fascination, all the while Adelaide simply moved her head every so many minutes to glance between the two women she considered her daughters. He in turn held Christine's hand in his, the side of his finger touching her ring as he watched the slow rise and fall of her chest. Each breath she took seemed like a gift to him. A gift he felt he didn't deserve but was grateful to have been given.

When fifteen minutes had passed the nurse removed both needles from Meg and Christine's arms, bandaging the creases of their elbows up to stop the bleeding. Another nurse came in then to usher Meg away to eat something. The intake of food was supposed to help keep her from passing out. It was a good request to make in Erik's opinion, considering the moment Meg stood up she wavered and her mother had to grab hold of her shoulders to steady her. Adelaide looked to Erik in silent question, wondering if he would be okay to stay alone with Christine while she stepped out with Meg. He nodded his head and she smiled at him in response, following her daughter out of the room while praising her bravery. As the transfusion nurse cleaned up her workstation Erik wondered just how long it would take for the blood to work. He asked the woman such.

"It all depends on how well her body takes to it. If she rejects it she doesn't stand much of a chance. She'll grow sickly quick from the bad reaction. But if it works she could be conscious within the next few hours. We'll just have to wait and see I'm afraid."

Erik accepted her answer and watched her exit the room, leaving him alone with Christine. As soon as the door shut closed he was tempted to look at the site of her wound to make sure it had been sutured to his standards, but refrained from doing such. The wound had been inflicted well above her knee. At the time lifting her skirt that high had been to try to save her life. If he did so now though, especially while she was unconscious, he would feel quite unsettled with himself. It actually made him uncomfortable in general, knowing she was only covered in a simple sheet and had been left alone with him, unchaperoned. When would they dress her?

Over an hour passed with no change. Adelaide was kind enough to check in on them and bring him food, which for once he was grateful for. He hadn't eaten an actual meal in days now and it seemed to help settle his nerves to have something in his stomach. As he ate Adelaide stayed silent, leaning against the chair Meg had sat in earlier.

"I'm so sorry all of this happened to you," she said after a quiet moment, looking over at him, "I feel like you have done nothing but suffer your entire life. I thought the night of your engagement would finally be the turning point. I thought the world would finally show you kindness. But look at what's happened since. My poor Christine. There's so much about her father she doesn't even know. Stories of his youth that she would love to hear." She hung her head. "I should have told her and Meg long ago about Gustave and I. Oh Erik, what kind of a woman am I?"

Erik took in the anguish which painted her face. "Adele, you saved my life. Need I remind you of that? I'd have died as a child were it not for you. You also took in Christine when she had not a single other person in the world to look after her. You're a good woman, a good mother...and the truest of friends. Never forget that. I won't let you."

Adelaide smiled with tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Erik. You're a very kind man to say such things. I am proud to consider you a part of my family."

"As I am you. We are indeed a family, Adelaide. All of us. We always have been."

He set his plate aside and stood up to embrace his sister. It was the first time he had ever done so in all of his life. It surprised her, he could tell. She stiffened for a moment before allowing herself to laugh a sad jovial sound and hug him in return. When she turned to move away her face was kind to him. "I apologize but I must go now. I have to get Meg home for the night. She isn't herself I'm afraid, but the doctor says that's normal for someone her size and that she should be better in the morning. You'll send for us when Christine wakes up, won't you?"

"Of course."

Erik wondered if visitors were allowed to stay overnight. Not that anyone here could stop him, but he still felt the need to inquire. He went out into the hall and thankfully saw George standing nearby, asking questions about Christine's care. It warmed his heart to know the man cared. His friend told him he saw no problem with him staying overnight, as long as he promised not to wander the halls. Erik could easily agree to such standards. After all he was the phantom of the opera, not the phantom of the hospital. Besides, wandering these halls would only depress him even more so than he always was. For who knew what sort of tragedies these workers saw each day? Erik shuddered at the thought.

He stopped on his way back to the room to ask a nurse to dress Christine before he went back in for the night. The woman blushed and apologized at his request, stating that that should have been done already. She scurried off then to complete the task herself. When she finished Erik thanked her and went to return to his post when he felt a firm hand fall upon his shoulder. He turned around to see the Persian officer once more at his heels.

"I've told you all I know," Erik stated, feeling bristled by the man's continuous need to hover.

"Yes, and I've returned to say that I believe your story. We searched the home and did indeed find the costume you described from the party that night. I have no doubt it was M. de Changy who ran into you then in order to obtain the planted evidence. I still find the whole ordeal very unsettling though, I must say. The man was known for his perfection in the community. Even if you had known it to have been him before your trial I doubt anyone would have believed you."

"But you do?"

"Yes my friend, I do. And with Christine's statement I should be able to clear up this misunderstanding up in a mere matter of days. To keep you out of prison though I need that statement as soon as she awakens, therefore I shall be staying close by while she rests. Would you like company until so? I am told I am fair conversation."

Erik gave the man a small smile in response to his cheeky one, hearing nothing but sincerity in his voice. "That would be nice."

Erik took his place once more by Christine's side, grasping her tiny hand in his. Though she couldn't feel the gesture it brought him much comfort, reminding him she was still here with him no matter from much his mind still screamed that he had lost her.

"I am overjoyed for you that she will live," the Persian said, leaning against the wall nearby.

"Only because of you," Erik said with guilt, "I truly thought she was already gone when you arrived."

He hated to admit it but any happiness he found for the rest of his life would only be because of the officer standing nearby. Any happiness in his marriage would be solely because of him. Any children only possible because of his keen eyes and quick thinking. He owed this man more than he could ever offer.

"She nearly was. Do not blame yourself for overlooking such. What matters now is that she will be fine."

"She's still so cold though," Erik observed distantly, wishing his hand were warm as he held hers. No doubt he was only chilling her worse.

"Perhaps I should go and ask for more blankets?" the Persian offered kindly.

Erik stood up and shook his head. It was his job to see to Christine's care, not this man's. He did not want to impose on him anymore than he already had. "I will go and fetch them. Just please, if you will, stay by her side until I return."

 _Nadir_

It was indeed a miracle that the young soprano was still alive. Nadir had to admit that he had not believed in the concept of transfusions when he'd first heard of the idea as it surfaced some odd years ago. Especially at first when doctors had been trying ridiculous things such as goat's milk to try and do so. Even now, seeing the blood work miracles before his eyes, he still found himself wary. The idea of having another person's life force inside of him seemed terribly invasive and he shuddered at the thought of every needing one. That chill he felt was probably the reason why so many people died from them. A person's natural response to foreign bodies is to attack them, not welcome them in. Yet Christine had. She had taken the blood of her half-sister wonderfully, still showing no adverse signs in reaction to the donation. He wondered how long it would be now until she awoke.

Already the colors of life in her skin was returning. He rejoiced in seeing pink in her cheeks instead of the awful marble white he'd seen in them at the Changy mansion. Her breathing was also more steady, thin whispers of air escaping her dusty pink lips as she took confident inhalations at adequate increments. Yes, she most certainly looked more woman than corpse now, and what a beauty of a woman she was. Nadir did not prefer the small women of this part of Europe but even he had to admit such.

He felt a great sadness inside himself though, knowing that when she awoke she would have to live with the horrors that she had seen. She seemed a fragile little bird, one whose life had never known strife or violence. So suddenly her happy stardom and romance had been overturned with kidnapping and bloodshed. Though that sort of thing was the norm back in Persia, here in France he'd very seldom seen such atrocities and was crestfallen to think of how Christine would handle the nightmares she would carry with her for years to come.

Erik had been gone from the room a good few minutes when Nadir saw the fair soprano begin to stir. His first thought was to shout for help, but it was still the wee early hours of the morning and he did not want to upset the other patients and staff by causing a ruckus. His second thought was to at least go and fetch Erik but he remained, not wanting the girl to be alone when she awoke.

After a moment he saw her eyes flutter open, revealing wondrous chocolate eyes. They were bright and round and full of life; she was truly alive there on the slab before him.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice raspy, "Where am I?"

"You are in the hospital, my dear. I am Nadir Khan, chief of police. I brought you here after you were shot."

He watched the girl's eyes widen in shock as the memory of being fired at returned to her violently. She attempted to sit upright, only to fall back down to the bed in pain. The pain didn't hold her down though as she slowly sat up once more, looking fearful. She touched her leg overtop the sheet to check if it was still whole, simultaneously scanning the darkened room in desperation, searching for something.

"Erik...? Monsieur Khan, where is Erik? He was there with me. Oh, please tell me that he is alright! Please tell me he was not taken back to that awful prison!"

Christine seemed to be on the verge of tears and Nadir was not good with tearful women. Even when his wife used to cry he had been helpless to comfort her, only ever seeming to make things worse. Still, he reached out and gently took hold of the girl's shoulders, laying her back down to rest as he spoke.

"Erik is here girl, have no worry. He is safe and whole and not under arrest at this time. I believe we have enough evidence to show that it was indeed monsieur de Changy who was responsible for Buquet's murder. I will bring it forth to the judge this very morning and with your statement included supporting such Erik will be a free man once more."

"That is very good to hear," Christine said softly, "but where is he now? Why is he not here with me?"

"He stepped out only a moment to fetch more blankets for you. He was worried you were not warm enough."

"That sounds like him." She smiled. "He is a kind man, my Erik."

"I agree."

As if on cue, Nadir heard the door behind himself open. Erik stepped in with a ridiculous armful of blankets, only to drop them to the floor upon seeing the two of them holding a conversation. Almost immediately then he was on his knees at Christine's side, wrapping his arms around her. Nadir, not wanting to intrude on such a tender moment, quietly stepped out, picking up the blankets from the floor and setting them of the table nearby before doing so. He figured now would be a good time to check on Darius anyways.

"I thought I had lost you..." he heard Erik whisper.

As he closed the door behind himself he saw the couple kiss, M. Destler treating Christine as gently as a newborn babe, as if she would somehow break in two beneath his touch. He smiled at the sight of the two of them. This man was no killer. Simply an artist in hopeless love. Nadir was sure of this and Christine's statement would only further prove such. Then maybe at last the two of them could resume their lives as planned.

.

.

.

.

* * *

 **So I have no idea how they did blood transfusions back in the 1800s (I do know though that milk was once used - yikes!). By the time this story takes place they were still super uncommon, the only successful one being between a man and his wife. From an old photograph I assumed they used a sort of one-way gravity line to do the deed, and just kinda went with that. That being said, I assume my fictional doctors were smart enough to have figured out that family blood would work better than spousal blood (even though blood typing was not yet around). And here you guys thought Meg being related was just something fun I had pulled out of my ass. Nope! It's finally served it's purpose! Sneaky, aren't I?**

 **Please take twenty seconds out of your busy lives to review!**

 **Much love,**

 **Nicole**


	42. The Road Ahead

The Road Ahead

1871

 _Christine_

Christine had to remain in the hospital for several weeks. Much to her frustration she'd discovered upon waking that she had lost almost all of the strength in her left leg. She was told by her doctors that she'd have to work very hard to slowly regain the use of it, and that in the end she may not ever dance again. She was determined to do so though, for she had been away from the opera house far too long now for her comfort. The road to recovery was not so bad though. Each evening Erik would come visit her after he'd finished his work for the day and, much to his obvious annoyance, almost always came accompanied by either the Larsons, Nadir, or the Girys themselves, never quite giving them time just to themselves. Christine couldn't be mad though. The support her friends and family had been giving her was a blessing and she loved each and every one of them for their thoughtfulness. During their absences during the day none other than Breanne herself stayed by her side, the handmaiden now out of employment yet personally paid by Erik to keep her company and help her with her strengthening exercises each morning.

Christine quickly discovered just how much she enjoyed Breanne's constant companionship. The younger girl was happy company, bright and bubbly, and was delighted to finally be out of the employment of Raoul. This was often mentioned when she would complain about her previous employer, stating his mansion had been far too much for her to clean on her own and that he had always been a loud and pompous fool whenever he entertained or had women over. Christine found she was not at all surprised that Raoul had enjoyed the company of many a woman over the years, but did have a fear run through her in regards to Breanne's past well-being, the young lady having dwelled in the same quarters with such a man for quite some time. After some time, Christine had finally gotten the courage to question if Raoul had ever been...unbecoming towards her. She was relieved to hear that no such thing had ever occurred. According to Breanne it had been because he hadn't fancied ladies of darker complexions. Christine was puzzled by that, for she herself found Breanne's deep caramel skin, as well as the fine hair she kept intricately braided in twisted designs atop her head, alluring and beautiful. With her gorgeous exterior and matching good heart she was quite the prize altogether. Any man would be lucky to have her. But Breanne seemed uninterested when it came to the topic of men. And while she never stated such, after listening to the way she talked Christine had all but figured out that her fancies must lay elsewhere.

On one of the foggier nights of the month, Erik had come to visit her while she'd been attempting to learn to braid her own hair under Breanne's tutelage. Not small braids no, that was not a look Christine could see herself wearing well. She'd simply longed to be able to do one big wrap so perhaps she could eliminate pins forever from her nightly routine. She had been positively dreadful at it though, her curls spilling out of the pattern her fingers tried to hold and the result ending up as one big knot. He and Breanne had laughed at her for nearly a half hour that night while she'd struggled to untangle it, refusing both their offers of assistance. After that, she had decided that maybe pins weren't so bad after all.

The first day she had been able to stand on her own again had been one of the most triumphant days of her life. At first she had struggled greatly just trying to reposition herself in her bed, needing Breanne and a nurse to all but carry her to the lavatory when she'd needed it. That had been dreadfully embarrassing for her. She'd felt like an infant unable to provide for herself, helpless and in need of constant support at every turn. Those feelings were only slighted alleviated by week two. By then she could take small steps, but only leaning heavily against someone with their arm around her waist. On the morning she'd first walked again though she'd awoken feeling confident in her abilities. She'd gone through her stretches and mentally prepared herself all day, awaiting Erik and the Giry's arrivals with great anticipation. When they had stepped through the door she'd warily risen to her feet, ordering Erik to stop when he'd immediately moved to come to her aide. The first step had been a test, the Madame and Meg both looking fearful as they too stepped closer and watched her nearly fall. The second had been better though, and so the pattern continued. She had smiled wide, her heart so full of joy it could burst, slowly making her way across the room and into her fiance's arms. She'd fallen right into them, exhausted yet alive in that embrace full of comfort and warmth, showered with verbal support from her lover as she wept with happiness.

Erik had indeed returned to the Opera Populaire almost immediately. The kind officer Nadir had seen to his case that very next morning after her surgery, just as he'd promised to, and after many tears and kisses when she'd awoken - from Erik of course - she had allowed doctor Larson to look her over as she told her story. The words had been difficult to raise to voice, each sentence seeming to plunge her right back into that dreadful night. Indeed, it was only with Erik holding her hand in his that she'd been able to recount what had happened aloud. When she'd gotten to the part about what she had done to Raoul she remembered squeezing Erik's hand so hard she'd feared it would break. She'd felt dreadful guilt overcome her as she'd recounted her actions aloud, recalling the look of betrayal that had flashed in Raoul's eyes. He'd looked so much like that boy she'd once loved in that moment, only distant and hurt. Not that he hadn't deserved his fate after all the pain he'd inflicted, but still. For her to have done something so violent was still staggeringly hard for her to comprehend.

Looking back she didn't even recognize the fierce woman she had been in that blood-filled vision. Could it really have been her, wielding a knife and drawing blood not once, but twice that night? Erik had told her the wound she had given the viscount had not been fatal, and that Raoul had actually died following an altercation with the police after they'd arrived. Nadir had seemed almost too willing to back up such a wild statement, which led her to believe that it was a white lie orchestrated by the two men to keep her from blaming herself for his demise. It was a sweet gesture, in its way, but she knew well enough that she had indeed taken a life that night. She often tossed and turned in her sleep over the matter, praying that God understood her actions and would pardon her for them come judgement day. Yes, she could forgive them for lying to her, and in time she supposed she would learn to forgive herself as well.

After all, they had nothing but time now. Life resumed the course they'd planned beforehand swimmingly, and as her health improved Christine spent many days lying in bed simply daydreaming about their lives to come. One thing she knew for sure was that their wedding couldn't come fast enough. As soon as she was able to fully stand again she wished to be wed, and kept that a secret from no one. But could they blame her? She had almost lost her dear fiance one too many times now, and vowed never again after all they'd been through. Besides, why would she want to delay what they both so desperately wanted? She couldn't understand Erik's apprehension to a quick marriage at first. He'd protested and tried to reason his point of view with her, stating that given more time she could better plan the wedding of her dreams. Christine hadn't cared for such a thing though. To her being married in a shack with no guests had been good enough a plan her, just so long as they were together. She finally agreed to settle waiting two months time though and together she, Meg, and Breanne had begun planning things on the weekends while Nadir, George, and Erik would talk their man talk in the other room, probably glad to be out of earshot of their many girlish giggles. By the time they'd started speaking of dress styles Christine had realized that maybe a little planning had been a good idea, as this would be a night she'd always want to remember as being perfect. She cursed Erik for being right on the matter.

Madame Giry had ended up keeping Erik's copy of his opera the night Christine had thrown it down on her floor, a thing Christine could not apologize to him enough for doing (he however seemed overjoyed that she had even found it in the first place after his arrest). She'd brought it to the manager's attention upon his return to work and they'd insisted that it be their upcoming show to promote the new season. Erik told her he had blatantly refused such, reasoning that no other woman could possibly ever portray his Aminta better than the woman who had inspired such a character. Christine had been honored by his words and was already excited to start working on her new role when Autumn rolled around. Until then the opera house would be putting on _Romeo et Juliette_ , with none other than Natalie herself as their leading lady. Erik had been less than happy at Christine's excitement over that difficult casting decision he'd had to made, stating the woman should never have been reinstated in the first place. Christine was happy for the older soprano though. Her dream of being a lead had at last finally come true.

By the end of week three, the week Christine had taken those first independent steps, she could walk wherever she pleased on her own. She'd still needed the assistance of a cane however, because after the first few steps her leg would betray her and begin to grow weak. It had been both a happy and sad day then as she'd hobbled down the hospital hallways with Breanne not far behind her in case she lost her footing. The independence she'd felt in taking those first steps had quickly faded as she leaned heavily against the wooden prop, but nonetheless it had felt wondering to be out of the hospital room and exploring a bit. The next morning, Doctor Larson had felt it safe to discharge her from the hospital after seeing her improvement, giving her medicine to take in case the pain become too intense, along with the good wishes of his family. It was then that Christine finally returned home, the carriage ride she and the Madame shared seeming much too long as it drove over the now melting snow and slush of the Paris streets towards the opera house.

Never had she expected such a greeting upon her return. Rehearsals had been postponed that afternoon (she wondered vaguely _who on earth_ would've done such a thing) and nearly the entire company had ended up cramming themselves into the lobby to celebrate her return. When the driver of their carriage had opened the front doors for them Christine had blushed wildly and nearly stumbled backwards at the sheer amount of cheer that had poured her way. Immediately the ballet ladies and choir girls had surrounded her, hugging her and proclaiming aloud just how much they'd missed her. Even the younger rats had turned out, little Angelica Larson and her friend Jammes running up to her in excitement to inform her of all that she'd missed out on lately. The managers themselves had eventually approached her as well, giving their apologies to all that had happened with a polite dip of their heads before quickly retreating, the amount of chattering women seeming like far too much for them to handle.

The wedding was set for only a few weeks later in the month, and after much thought Christine had decided to hold it in the opera house chapel itself. Erik had protested, stating that he would somehow book Notre-Dame herself if she would prefer something more glamorous. Yet Christine knew in her heart there would never be anywhere more sacred to her than the chapel where she and Erik had first met. Besides, with her father's candle down there it would almost be as if he were there beside them. The chapel was very small though, and so only immediate family would be able to attend the ceremony. The rest of their friends would have to meet them for the reception at a hotel down the street for the celebration party. Erik had booked the venue himself, wanting her to be able to hold a grand reception since she hadn't gotten to host an engagement party, and she found she quite looked forward to an evening of dancing and celebrating their union with all their peers and loved ones.

Christine spent most of her days up until the wedding day either planning it or watching the rehearsals for the upcoming opera from the audience. It was odd for her to simply sit by and watch though, for she felt as though she were almost outside her own body, observing the dancers move about the stage she was so used to being a part of. That being said she was finding herself quite at home in box number five, her fiance's most special home in the theater. It had a certain charm to it, and she had been honored at his offer to use his sacred vantage point each day. It was easy to tell that only he had been permitted to use it these past many years. The box was exceptionally clean, with perfect paint and finely dusted railings. Various notebooks sat stacked in the corner of the box, their many reams filled with sketches and notes he had made over the years on the various shows that had been performed.

The most recent book, at the top of the pile, he'd last written in for the production of Hannibal. The pages were dated, with notes scribbled in his fine, scripted handwriting depicting who had and hadn't lived up to his standards each night. To her vast disappointment she found no notes on her performances, and pitied not finding insight as to how she could better perform, for she'd expected, while he'd never said it to her face, that she could have done so much better with that role. But perhaps she had truly been perfect in that show as he'd claimed, or at the very least she had distracted him well enough not to note on her, for as she flipped through the pages she soon found endless drawings of herself in that white gown in various poses, some innocent and some so provocative she blushed. The drawings were incredible, and running her hand down one of the pages she couldn't help but once more smile at Erik's genius and skill. He never ceased to amaze her in his many talents, or his apparent fantasies of her in white dresses.

The day before the wedding approached quickly, and Christine couldn't help but begin to feel nervous as she paced back and forth within her small dorm room. The Madame had taken her gown and hung it in her own room for safe keeping, yet Christine wished more than anything that it were still here with her. She felt the need to try it on once more, even though she'd done so almost every day since she'd purchased it, just in case something had changed and it no longer fit. Such thoughts were ridiculous though. If anything she had grown skinnier over her recovery, food being much too much of an effort most days to go and scavenge for on her cane. Thankfully though she no longer needed the blasted thing unless she spent hours on her feet, and she was confident that tomorrow she would be able to enjoy her wedding and reception without much, if any, use of it.

A knock sounded at the door and she turned to see the Madame sliding into the room, stopping to rest her cane against the wall next to where Christine had left hers. She couldn't help but grin to herself, looking at the two canes. Even if she were not the Madame's true daughter she certainly looked the part. In her free hand Mme. Giry was carrying a large, oddly shaped package, wrapped up in the same brown paper Meg had used back on her birthday. Christine eyed her adoptive mother's sweet smile and the package warily, sitting on the edge of her bed with a puzzled expression.

"What is this?" she laughed as the Madame placed the package atop her lap. The parcel was heavy, but lightweight enough that it wasn't bothersome to her leg. She curiously placed a hand on top of it to keep it balanced on her knees.

"It was your father's," Mme. Giry explained, "he gave it to me just before he passed. I think you're old enough now that it should be given back to you though. In saner mind I believe he would've wanted it to stay within the family."

Christine saw Mme. Giry's eyes grow watery and distant, obviously losing herself in some far off memory. She had never fully explained the relationship she'd once had with her father but Christine could tell when she spoke of him just how much she had loved him. And although there were still so many unanswered questions on the matter, Christine knew one day she would learn the truth to each and every of them, and so she never pressed the matter. After all, it had all been long before she was even born. Even Erik had only been a child back then. And though the union had been illegitimate, Christine could not have been happier to discover that she had had true sisterhood in Meg all along. She'd always felt that sort of a bond towards her dear friend anyway, but to find out their connection ran as deep as blood had caused many a happy tear in her eyes as they'd rejoiced in this newfound discovery, growing if possible even closer than ever over the matter.

The brown paper crinkled underneath her fingertips as she pinched it, ready to pull it open. She hesitated only a moment, overcome with emotion that she was indeed touching something that had once belonged to her father. She had nothing else of his, save for a single photograph, and so this present meant a great deal to her, more than the Madame could ever know. As she tore the paper away Christine felt her eyes watering. She ran her hand gently overtop the smooth black case with a sad but joyous smile.

"Is this...Madame? Could it really be?"

Christine didn't wait for an answer, pulling away the rest of the paper to reveal the entirety of the instrument case. Then, holding her breath, she unclipped its hinged seals and opened its aged and squeaky lid. As she did she felt her tears fall free, and was careful to lean back and wipe them away at once so they wouldn't fall to the precious cargo resting within the inner silk. When she finally regained her composure she set the case down onto the bed next to her and pulled the violin from its home as it were made of priceless diamonds. The beautiful cherry color was just the same as she remembered, as was the small nick the base of the instrument had received when she'd tripped holding it as a little girl. She'd felt terribly guilty that day, yet her father had only laughed, stating that now he would always know which instrument was his in a crowded pit.

She brought the instrument close to her chest and embraced it, weeping with happiness. It was as if the warm wood were embracing her as well, for she felt whole, as if her father were there beside her in that precious moment as she held what she knew had been the very essence of his soul. Night after night, year after year he had loved this instrument as if it were a babe. And now she had it to call her own, their memories together clearer now to her than they had been in years. She could almost hear the gentle ghosts of his fine and playful melodies and swore she could smell his cologne on the inside of the casing from where he had kept his ties. It was truly the grandest gift she had ever received.

"I was thinking that perhaps you might wish for Erik to play it at your reception tomorrow night," Mme. Giry said with a smile, "He is an excellent violist, you know. I think even your father would approve his playing."

Christine carefully set the violin back into its case and stood up, flinging her arms around the Madame in joy. "Oh, what a wonderful idea! It will be perfect! It can be my wedding present to him - I can give it to him tonight, that way he may tune it. Would you mind ever so much if I went to him now?"

Mme. Giry laughed. "By all means, Christine. Nothing would make me happier. Just make sure you retire early tonight. For tomorrow is a big day!"

Christine kissed her dear guardian's cheek. "The best of days!"

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* * *

 **I love this little chapter. How did we like Christine getting her father's violin from Madame Giry? I imagine that was hard for her to part with, seeing as how Gustave left it to her as a token of his affections. Would we maybe want a fic on their love story one day? I'd love to write it if people want to read it!**


	43. The Gift

The Gift

1871

 _Erik_

Erik sorely missed Christine's presence during the opera's daily rehearsals. He found it odd be working so closely with Natalie instead, a woman he still greatly disliked for the cruel words she'd once slung at his fiancee. He had to admit that she was hard working though, obviously desperate to prove her worth. Was her voice anywhere near up to par with Christine's, or even Carlotta's for that matter? No, not by a long shot. But in a pinch she was doing nicely, and with Garon's strong tenor much louder than she could enunciate one almost couldn't hear the god awful way her voice tremored with her attempted vibrato.

With only two weeks left until the opening of the new show, Erik should have been picking apart every last piece of this rehearsal, dissecting it until it reached the levels of his previously mandated perfection. But today he found himself quite distracted, for tomorrow he was to be married. It was such a strange concept, the idea of himself being married. Never once before Christine had he ever had the faintest notion of such a thing happening to him, and even after meeting the woman he would grow to love more than life itself he had never dreamed she would grow to love him in return. Yes, he was a man on high today. So excited to begin the next step in their lives, to wed his blessed angel.

Over and over again these past two weeks Adelaide had insisted Erik play at their wedding reception, and the more she'd mentioned the matter the more he found he truly wanted to. He'd agreed such a thing would be fitting since music had been the very basis of his and Christine's relationship. He had been but a lonesome ghost and she a fair soprano, and by chance of circumstance they'd found in each other a desire to create beauty. As he'd tried to compose a song to fit the joy he felt in his heart though the music just didn't come to him, which frustrated him endlessly, for he had written countless orchestras before, both tragic and beautiful, but none before to explain the love that blossomed so violently within his heart. He'd tried on the piano first and then the violin, hoping to discover where the song lay hidden. Eventually he'd come up with a tune orchestrated on both instruments that he hoped would suffice, and had told Adelaide it was far from perfect but it was the best he could do in a pinch. She'd seemed very pleased upon hearing this, and had told him she couldn't wait to hear his latest masterpiece. It was a good thing Erik already knew he'd be up all night tonight with nerves, for now he felt the need to go over the song time and time again in order to get it perfect for his new bride to hear.

He could already picture his Christine all dressed in white, that beautiful, virgin angel glow surrounding her, her dark curls spilled over her small shoulders in soft, cascading tendrils. The image was maddening to think of, and quite distracting as well, but only in the best of ways. With all they'd been through since their engagement he found he simply couldn't stand the time they now spent apart. He craved her immensely, nearly every hour of every day. Seeing her, touching her, or simply just standing near her had been causing him such elation as of late. George had told him this sudden need and desire stemmed from the fear of almost having lost her, and that eventually those feelings would die down. He didn't know if he ever wanted such a thing to happen though. Why shouldn't a man desire the presence of his wife in such a way? He wanted to cherish her forever, to always stand proudly by her side, to take her for walks in the park on Sundays and hold her throughout the long winter nights.

When they'd first found out just how long she'd have to stay in the hospital he had sworn not to leave her side the entire length of her stay, ready to be a dog at her beckoning call. She'd quickly informed him how impractical that would've been though and had insisted he return to the theater, to watch over it and give it the guidance it needed to continue to thrive. And so he'd returned to work, distracted always by the thought of her, and began the rehearsals for the start of their new season, keeping the premiere of Don Juan on hold until his star was better suited to perform once more.

Even now with her back in the opera house she still seemed so far away from him. Every day he was trapped in his work while she off doing her exercises with Breanne or planning their wedding with Meg. Every now and then though she would grace his presence by watching the rehearsals from the audience. He'd given her the key to his box after he'd noticed it becoming a frequent habit of hers, and relished seeing her smile from afar when he looked out into the otherwise empty theater on those days. Her smile alone seemed to light up every seat. Other than those small smiles though he barely saw her. They would meet up in the evenings, true, but only for a few hours before she'd once more have to leave his side to retire for the night. After tomorrow night though she would be his wife, and he would never have to send her away again. They would share a bed together, long blissful nights with her safe in his arms where she so very much belonged.

As the rehearsal ended Erik quietly made his way towards Christine's dressing room, careful to make sure Natalie wasn't using it since, as the star of the current production, she had every right too. When he knocked and heard no response he opened the door, planning to quickly descend into his lair and change for the night so that he may see his Christine one more time before the ceremony tomorrow.

As it was though he found her waiting for him inside, perched at her little vanity bench where he was so used to seeing her, looking lovely as ever. She smiled upon seeing him, quickly jumping up and closing the small space between them to embrace him tightly. He grinned at her enthusiasm as she all but bounced in his arms. It seemed he wasn't the only one who couldn't wait for tomorrow to arrive.

He leaned down to kiss her, eagerly capturing her lips, feeling her sweet smile against his as she pulled him closer, her tiny hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. He couldn't hide the immense arousal that stirred inside him at the urgency of her kisses, and was almost embarrassed by the fantasies that formed in his head as he felt her body pressing against his. She must have noticed the siren-like effect she had on him, for after a moment she pulled away, looking reluctant, smoothing her skirt out and eyeing him with a glimmer of laughter in her teasing eyes.

"Now now, there will plenty of time for such things tomorrow, my love," she stated coyly. "All night, in fact."

The last bit of her statement was spoken with a blush rising to her cheeks, one that caused Erik's heart to race, as well as his anxiety spike. It had been one thing back under the starlight when they had all but lost themselves in the throngs of passion, but it seemed another mood entirely to know such acts were expected of them tomorrow night. Planned, almost. Everyone at the reception would know what their married activities would consist of that night, and Erik shuddered to think of anyone actually picturing such.

"Are you quite certain you want to...?" Erik stammered, not quite sure how to act or what to say in response. Only she had ever had this effect on him, the power to completely crumble the confident man he tried so hard to carry himself as.

"What to...make love with you?" she laughed, finishing his sentence. Once more she stepped towards him, raising her hands up to rest on his chest as she smoothed out the jacket she had disheveled. Erik looked down at her hands and imagined them once more beneath the fabric of his clothes. Her hands had explored his torso so freely that long ago perfect night, touching every painful scar on his body and electrifying every fiber of his being. And when he'd started to undress her...he felt himself grow aroused at the memory and simply found himself nodding at her, hopefully not with his mouth agape.

"I can't wait to," she all but purred, once more reaching up to kiss him. Those prowess words were all Erik needed to hear to chase away his worries on the matter. He pulled her flush to his body, deepening their kiss as he crushed his lips down onto hers, hearing a small moan escape her as he slowly backed her up against her dressing room wall. It was there that she moved her hands under the sides of his coat, sliding them up his back over his shirt, that thin fabric the only barrier against her touch. He gently tugged on her bottom lip with his teeth in response to the shivers she sent up his spine, causing her to gasp in surprise. He then pulled back, satisfied by the lustful look of need in her eyes as he smiled down at her.

"Plenty of time for such things tomorrow? Right, my dear?"

Christine merely blinked, blushing wildly as she brought her hands back out from his coat and looked side to side, noticing the provocative angle in which their bodies were leaned into one another. They were so intimately positioned that if they were unclothed...he could tell she was thinking the same thought.

"Tomorrow," she agreed with a breathless smile, playing off her embarrassment with a giggle.

Erik laughed and released his hold on her, stepping away only to have his eyes catch sight of a large instrument case leaning against the side of her vanity. He looked at her quizzically then, all previous thoughts of nightly pleasures gone as he wondered if perhaps she'd somehow managed to bring it up from his lair. He was horrified at the thought of her venturing down there alone. The journey was dangerous and she could easily fall over the edge of the stairs, sinking deep into the black water, never to found again. He was about to raise his voice to lecture her on such suicidal tendencies, yet before he did he turned back slightly to notice the case to be much older than his was, and also heavier in appearance. Relief flowed through him.

"Whose violin is that, Christine?" he instead asked calmly. He knew very well she didn't play and found himself quite curious as to why she had it.

Christine smiled, moving past him to pick it up and set it atop her vanity's surface. "Well, Madame Giry mentioned that it might be nice for you to play at our reception tomorrow...and well, I couldn't think of anything to get you as a wedding present and so..."

He watched her unlatch the casing, raising up the lid to reveal a beautiful cherry wood violin. There were obvious signs of wear on the instrument but overall it was in beautiful condition, as if the previous owner had loved the instrument as one would a child. The strings seemed worn, and due to the age Erik guessed it to be terribly out of tune. But with a little care he knew right away it would sound grand.

"It was my father's violin," she said wistfully, picking it up and holding it out before him. "I think he would have wanted you to have it, to bring it to life once more."

Erik looked down at the instrument in awe, reaching out with shaking hands to receive the treasure his fiancee was presenting to him. There was a small brass plate on the side of the body that read _G. Daae_ , and Christine nearly cried as he took it from her. They were not sad tears though, merely tears of love for her beloved father's memory. He knew how much this piece of him had to mean to her, and for her to give it to him - there was no doubt in his heart the depths of her love. He felt honored, honored yet unworthy.

"Christine...I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing. Just please, let me hear his music once more tomorrow. Only you can give me such a gift."

Erik nodded, walking over to the vanity and setting the violin back in its case. He then turned to his fiancee and embraced her tightly in his arms, feeling her tears of mixed emotion fall down onto his dress shirt.

"Oh, how I wish he were still here Erik," she cried. "He would've given his blessing to us joyfully, I know he would have. He'd have loved you."

Erik thought back to the day he'd journeyed to the cemetery to ask Gustave's permission to marry his daughter. One day he would tell Christine of that surreal morning, of the sun that had streamed down from the sky and the breeze that had seemed to smile upon him. Not today though. Today he would simply hold her and rub the space between her shoulders soothingly, desperate to chase away any trace of sadness within her heart.

"He is here," he insisted. "He is with you always. You carry him in your heart and through your music. You honor his memory every day with what a kind, strong woman you have become. The only person who could ever be more proud of you is I. Yet I'm afraid I'm quite biased, so madly in love with you that I can see no faults."

"Please do not be fooled, my love. I have many faults indeed," Christine insisted with a laugh as she whipped away her tears. "But you are not allowed to see a single one of them until after we are married. For if you see them now you may change your mind and decide you do not wish to wed me after all!"

Erik laughed and picked her up off the ground, her squeal of delight a happy bell in his ears. He held her bridal style close to his heart.

" _You_ have faults?" He reached up to slide his mask off his face, letting it fall to the ground. He was completely comfortable showing his face to his beloved nowadays, even with the new jagged scar that stretched across it. "My dear, _I_ have faults!"

Christine hooked her arms around his neck and kissed him sweetly. "Yes, you do - and I love each and every one of them!"

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* * *

 **Awwwww...a little bit of fluff to celebrate the holiday mood. I hope you all are enjoying the festivities of the season! The next chapter should be up by tomorrow where we will all get to attend the Destler-Daae wedding celebration. Between you and me I hope there will be cake. I'm quite the little cake whore.**


	44. The Perfect Day

The Perfect Day

1871

 _Christine_

Christine had hardly slept a wink, bursting with energy and already wide awake by the time Meg came to fetch her the next morning. Her stomach was aflutter with butterfly wings as she got dressed and headed out front door of the opera house to the awaiting carriage posted. Erik had arranged for the her and the Girys to get ready for the wedding ceremony at the hotel the reception was to be held at, renting out the entire penthouse suite simply for their use. Christine was truly agasp a mere twenty minutes later as they stepped inside the room. It was a deep red velvet and gold color, with beautiful wooden paneling and a large mirror affixed to the southern wall. Beside that mirror hung her wedding dress, wrapped in thin paper and hooked high up so that the train barely skirted the floor. Christine was dying to put it on, walking straight towards it as they entered, but the Madame insisted that they had all day to get ready, and ushered her towards the master bathroom instead, insisting she relax and bathe herself while the two of them finished with preparations.

Christine agreed with a downhearted sigh, glancing back only once at her dress in longing. She realized that while a bath sounded wonderful she hadn't a clue as to how she could possibly relax when in just a few hours she was to be married! The anticipation was killing her. Was it like this for everyone? Meg passed her a stack of towels and said they'd return soon with breakfast, ordering her to enjoy herself. Christine kissed her dear half-sister and maid-of-honor on the cheek before retiring to the washroom, amazed at the size of the hotel's penthouse lavatory. The inside was grand, at least twice the size of her dorm room back at the opera house. The walls of it were painted eggshell white, smooth and flawless with gold trimming around the edges, making it look clean and welcoming. In the corner of the lavatory a clawfoot bathtub nestled quietly, suddenly calling out to her as she remembered what an amazing feeling her first warm bath had felt like.

Almost as if he knew just how much she'd loved it before, Christine once again found the same assortment of various soaps and oils that Erik had left her back when she'd stayed in his lair. She could only smile as she looked down at the many colorful glass bottles, imaging him awkwardly struggling to hand over the ridiculously large crate to the Madame to bring up to the hotel, the older woman eyeing him as if he were insane for such a gesture.

Slipping off her clothes, Christine turned on the water and watched as it filled the porcelain tub. Once more she was mesmerized by the tiny body of water that was just for her, and excitedly began testing out the water perfumes to see which one suited the mood of the day. She knew she couldn't go with anything too soothing, for her lack of sleep would not be assisted any by the calming drifts of lavender and honey. Eventually she settled on a flowery scent, one that smelt of rose mixed with honeysuckles. The aroma was soft and romantic, perfect, she decided, for a wedding.

When the Girys returned to knock on her door an hour later she quickly dried herself, wrapping her body in the robe that was provided by the hotel. Outside in the main room the Girys had seated themselves at the small four person table under the window. Meg had laid out a large assortment of breakfast foods for them to choose from, and together the three woman chatted merrily while Christine's hair dried. Christine knew to savor the food well and eat plenty, for she had made it her own rule not to eat in her wedding gown, in fear of possibly staining the immaculate snow white color.

When the afternoon finally rolled around Christine found herself grinning ear to ear as Meg laced up the back of her dress. The Madame was nearly in tears at the sight, even though she had been in the boutique when they'd purchased it together two weeks ago. Even Christine had to admit though that wearing it today felt different than it had that day. Every time she'd tried it on before she'd simply been planning to be a bride. Dreaming of it. Today, she was one. Or at least in three hours she would be.

And what a bride she would be. Christine spent the next two hours watching in the mirror as Meg expertly applied creams to her hair, styling it to be springier and shinier than usual. She'd desperately wanted to put it up into an intricate updo, but Christine had denied her that pleasure, stating that both she and Erik preferred it down. The only thing thing she'd allowed was for the front of her hair to be pulled back slightly to either side, that way it would not fall into her face at ill-opportune moments. Yet even though it ended up being practically the same style she normally wore, she still looked like a completely different woman with Meg's makeup skills. Within meme minutes her eyes were bright and shiny, outlined in thin charcoal, her cheeks pinker (like she needed any help with how much she was blushing today!), and her eyebrows more softly arched. When it came time to pick a lip color Christine had chosen the pinkest shade of red from Meg's collection, wanting to capture the sensuality of her masquerade makeup, but on a less provocative scale. Though the deep maroon was tempting today she was to look the part of an innocent bride, not the seductress in a dark Poe poem.

"One last thing," Mme. Giry stated merrily, pulling out Christine's diamond choker from a box on the table. She came up behind Christine and placed it around her neck, fastening it and letting it fall into place. The edges of it flowed out over her collarbone beautifully, the pattern fitting the curve of her neckline just so, as if it had been designed as an accessory specifically meant to complaint this gown. The Madame took hold of Christine's hand and placed her matching earrings in her palm, just the same as she had the first time she'd given them to her. Christine stared down at the earrings a moment, lost in a dark memory she tried very hard to repress. She quickly shook her head, clearing her mind of that night, and slipped the earrings into place with a smile. After all, it had not been her earrings' fault that that night had gone so terrible, and so she wouldn't blame the tiny diamonds for what had transpired. No matter what had happened, the earrings were still the first present her beloved had ever given her. They would always be special to her.

The Girys took turns getting ready in the bathroom afterwards, Meg changing first into a beautiful cream colored gown that hugged her tightly at the waist. She stood in front of the main room's mirror afterwards, wrapping her hair up in a winding braid that featured loose strands framing her small face, giving her a windblown yet formal appearance. The Madame nervously stepped out of the lavatory ten minutes later, wearing a royal blue gown with a sweetheart neckline, causing both her wards to gape at her. Neither of them had never seen her wear any other color besides black, and this blue was surprising rich and highly complimentary on her. Their staring seemed to frustrate the older woman, who quickly made a move to hide and change when her daughter stood up and stopped her, saying she looked lovelier than ever. Which was true. The blue color was immaculate on her and she'd taken her deep raven hair out of its usual braid, making herself look years younger with soft waves falling down her back. Christine couldn't stop herself from wondering if she had worn such rich colors back when she'd been acquainted with her father. Did she start wearing black after he had died, in mourning? She wanted to ask but figured it best not to pry such a sensitive subject, especially on such a happy day.

The carriage arrived again for them at exactly six that evening. Christine pulled her veil down over her face as she descended the steps of the hotel, trying to hide her embarrassingly giddy and childish smiles from the people of Paris' streets, in order to maintain the expected calm composure of a young, public bride. The few people strolling by as she climbed into the carriage stopped to wave at her and wished her well, tipping their hats or hollering wishes of wellness. She waved to them many thanks as the door closed behind her, and just like that they were on their way. The ride was short, but a few minutes long, yet those few moments seemed like an eternity to her as she tapped her nails on the wooden, curtained window ledge and hummed to herself to try and calm the anxiety she hadn't known she was feeling. Eventually they arrived, and the Girys exited first to hold open both doors so that Christine could slide out sideways without compromising the delicate portions of her skirt.

They entered the opera house through the back door, Christine not wishing to impose on anyone's work that day by making a spectacle and going through the front. The managers greeted her with warm smiles from the hall as she passed by, and she was glad they had not minded her using their chapel for such a personal event. When she finally stood outside the doors of the small chapel she couldn't believe this moment had finally arrived. Meg slipped through the door first, bubbling with excitement. The Madame stayed by her side however, trying to hide her own excitement through a pursed grin.

"Are you to give me away in my father's place?" Christine asked her kindly, sensing the woman's reason for staying by her side.

The Madame nodded, her smile growing slightly sad at the mention of her former lover. Christine threw her arms around her, holding her tightly. It was an embrace of gratitude as well as a gesture of comfort. "Thank you...for everything, Madame. Thank you for bringing me here all these years ago. Thank you for bringing me to Erik."

"My dear, even if I had not brought you to the opera house all those years ago I have no doubt in my mind that the two of you would have still crossed paths one day." She winked at her. "Such is the way fate works."

The Madame reached forward and pushed forward on the door as she spoke, holding it open for Christine to enter through. Erik stood there before her then, merely a floor space away, waiting for her beneath the stained glass window she used to sit upon as she sang to him. Candles surrounded their old lesson space and small displays of blood red rose bouquets had been placed around the room. Her heart soared as she took that first step towards her forever.

* * *

 _Erik_

Erik thought for a moment he might pass out, and wondered whether or not skipping the food George had brought him that morning had been a wise idea. The doctor had insisted upon him eating all day, and perhaps listening to him would've been a smart decision. After all, doctors were usually right in their suggestions. He pushed the thoughts of his empty stomach and flighty nerves aside though, holding his breath as he saw the door to the chapel begin to open. It was not his bride that stepped through however, only her snickering maid of honor, laughing at his facial expression as she joined the two men and the local priest on the far side of the room.

"Erik, breathe. If you pass out now Christine will never forgive you," she jested, sensing his wariness.

Erik tried his best to take her advice, breathing in slowly and releasing it even slower as he felt a bead of sweat run down his neck. Eventually his nerves settled, and he tried his best to keep such composure. George patted his shoulder in reassurance, and Erik nodded at him, grateful to have his friend so close.

The next time the door creaked it was Adelaide who stepped inside, holding the entrance open to reveal his blushing bride, her cheeks noticeably bright pink even beneath the long lace veil that covered her face. She was a stunning sight before his eyes, and he nearly wept at her beauty. The dress she wore hugged her womanly curves sweetly, the lace overlay of the gown matching her veil and the train of her dress just long enough to differentiate ballgown style from wedding. Meg quickly moved from the priest's side as she took her first step through the doorway, grabbing one of the rose bouquets he had set out in decoration and crossing the room to hand it to her. His bride laughed and took them from her, now standing the complete image of a proper bride as Adelaide walked her the few short feet towards him.

"You're so beautiful," he found himself whispering aloud, staring down at her in wonderment.

"As are you."

Erik wondering if she could tell just how much her words made his face flush behind his mask. Surely the exposed side of his face was bright red. Meg reached forward to take the the rose bouquet back from Christine. With her hands free Erik took them in his own, squeezing them gently to calm her nerves as well as his own. The priest started speaking then, but for the life of him Erik would never be able to recall a damn word the man had said that night. He was too lost in Christine's eyes as they locked with his beneath her sheer veil, the sparkle in them more precious to him than all the jewels of the world. When it finally came time to recite their vows they did so quickly, having chosen sweet and simple traditional ones. They hadn't written their own, for there wasn't a single person in the world they felt the need to prove their love to. They both knew it was pure and that words alone could never describe it. Not even Erik, with all the languages he could speak, had been able to find the right phrases to piece together.

It was when the priest finally asked if they had the rings that he turned away from her for the first time that evening, nodding to George. The doctor crossed the room and exited, leaving Christine to eye him curiously. He laughed and slid his palm up her arm, turning her body to face the door as it once more opened and little Eliza sauntered in, dressed in bright pink and smiling a full smile, short one vital tooth that she had lost earlier in the week. She carried a tiny silver serving tray in her hands. On that tray there lay two solid gold rings atop a dozen rose petals, the larger one for him and the other one thin as to pair with Christine's engagement ring. Next to those keys was a large brass key with a black satin ribbon. Erik smiled wickedly at the key, thinking of his wedding present for his bride with pride.

Christine laughed as the little girl nearly tripped walking the few steps towards them. She quickly stepped forward to meet her halfway and saved her from tumbling the rings across the floor. He watched as his bride took the rings and the key into her hand, taking a moment to hold up the large brass object with curiosity. She then bent down and hugged the younger version of herself with so much love Erik thought he may just burst. It was then he realized just how blessed he would feel if they were to have a child of their own one day. A tiny person made up of their shared and mutual love. One who he could see Christine hold just the same way each and every day.

When Christine turned back around to face him she was holding up the key suspiciously, smiling as she dangled it before him with one raised brow. He simply smiled at her and placed it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping as she stood back in front of him. They then each in turn placed their golden bands upon one another's fingers, at last intertwining their hands together so that the bands touched with a tiny clink that made them both smile.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," The priest declared. "You may kiss the bride."

Erik could not have been more eager. He'd been waiting all night to hear those exact five words. He quickly lifted the lace veil from Christine's face, taking in the clear sight of her beauty as he brought it up over her head. Once more he felt the need to thank Meg, seeing as how Christine's lips had been painted a sensual shade of rosey pink. He bent down to kiss her, their first married kiss, but was stopped as she raised her little hand up to his face and slid his mask off, letting it fall to the ground behind him. No one but the priest seemed to react, and frankly Erik didn't give a damn as to what the man was thinking in that moment. He simply smiled at the notion that someone - no, not just someone, his wife - loved each and every part of him.

"I wish to kiss my husband, not a mask," Christine said softly with a grin.

And kiss him she did.

* * *

The greeting to their reception was grand. Nearly the entire opera house had turned out for the glamorous party, young and old alike. The little ballet rats, owning nothing more fancy, were dressed in their nicest rehearsal dresses, dancing to the music as their parents sipped champagne nearby. Christine and Erik had almost immediately been separated by the crowds upon their arrival, much to his dismay. But it appeared social norm dictated that every girl in France congratulate his wife one at a time, squealing and giggling noises most shrill. His annoyance at having her attention elsewhere must have been noticeable, for George was by his side within minutes passing him a drink.

"Don't fret, my friend. You have years upon years now to indulge yourself in her presence. Let her celebrate with friends a little. Come, sit. Rest a minute with us men."

Erik reluctantly followed his good friend to a table where, to his surprise, the Persian officer Nadir was awaiting them. The man was finely dressed this evening, wearing a sharp suit with a green vest, a small hat upon his head and a square glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. He stood up and shook Erik's hand firmly, his warm smile sincere.

"Congratulations M. Destler. This is a happy day indeed!"

"I have to agree with you there, officer. Today I am the happiest man alive! I am surprised you could come, actually. I thought for sure our invitation to you had fallen upon deaf ears."

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," the older man replied, dipping his head in appreciation.

The three men conversed amongst themselves, sipping the fine alcohol that Nadir had brought with him, specially imported from his home country of Persia. The taste of the rum was exotic, laced with spices Erik had never tasted before that left a pleasant lingering sensation upon his tongue. Eventually they were interrupted by a rather breathless Anthony, whom Meg had finally released from her clutches for the first time that evening. The young man looked flustered, taking Erik's glass right out of his hand and downing it as if it were a shot, grimacing at the taste.

"The ladies would like to dance, messieurs," he informed. "Please, do join us. There simply isn't enough of me to go around."

The men were more than happy to oblige, Erik nearly jumping up from his seat hearing that his bride was once more free. He walked over to where Christine was talking and grabbed her waist from behind, spinning her around into his arms. She smiled upon seeing his face and gave him a quick kiss as he ran his fingers down the lacy arms of her dress, taking her hands in his.

"May I have this dance, madame Destler?" he asked her quietly. Her eyes lit up as she heard her new name spoken for the first time.

"Monsieur Destler, you may have _every_ dance!"

He led her out onto the floor, the band playing a soft, romantic melody as he held her close and swayed to its rhythm. Christine seemed to recognize the piano portion, as if she'd chosen the song herself, and started to hum along to it, resting her head against his chest as they danced. After a few moments he recognized the tune as the one she'd sang to him just before she'd taught him to dance back at the opera house. He smiled at this, glad that she had. He would've hated to embarrass her in their first dance as husband and wife.

As the song ended Erik realized that nearly everyone had stopped to watch them, cheering and smiling as they stepped apart and Christine blushed from the attention. As the next song began guests of all sizes joined in. From the corner of his eye Erik noticed a blushing Adelaide getting swept up in the charms of his newest exotic counterpart. The older man was suave, bowing to her as if she were a queen, lightly bestowing a kiss to the back of her hand as he asked her to dance. His adopted sister simply nodded her head, speechless it seemed, and Erik smiled as Nadir began to spin her around the room. He worried about Adelaide's hip with so much motion, but this seemed not to be a problem. The Persian held her just above that weakened side in support, causing Erik to wonder just when the two of them had met before for him to know to do such a thing. He thought back to the hospital, to all the time he had spent by Christine's side with both their parties unaccounted for. Perhaps that night had been their humble beginning.

"Oh Erik, just look at the way he's looking at her!" he heard Christine whisper with excited delight. She seemed to have noticed Erik slowing down their own dance as he watched them, and now they had both stopped to watch the sweet interaction. "Perhaps I will get to plan another wedding some day soon."

"Well, it's never too late to find love," Erik agreed with a laugh, looking down at his young wife. So long he'd spent his own life alone, trapped in bitter loneliness, never dreaming he would find himself a lover and lifelong companion. And yet here she was. "You taught me that, my dear."

Christine smiled at his words, leaning up to kiss him sweetly. He could tell the token of affection was meant to be brief, yet the minute her lips touched his he was alight with passion, pulling her close and dipping her slightly as the music swelled to crescendo, his hand holding the small of her back in support. It was only a cough from George that broke his trance a moment later, causing him to pull back in lighthearted frustration. As he did he heard giggling and looked down to see Angelica and Eliza staring up at them, their tiny smiles contagious with one another as Erik pulled Christine back up to full standing position.

"Far be it for me to get in the way of newlywed passion, but I believe my pregnant wife would very much appreciate it if you two would cut the cake. She's been craving it all week, you see, and that table over there has been getting much more ogling from her than I have this evening."

George laughed, leaning down to tell his daughters to hush their giddy whispering. As he ushered them away Erik couldn't help but turn back once more to kiss his wife before they made their way across the room.

"I will never tire of this feeling," he admitted, taking her face gently in his hands as he rested his forehead against hers. Her cheeks felt so soft beneath his fingers, her small smile and blushing cheeks causing him an indescribable amount of happiness. He felt her tiny hands reach up over his, giving them a light squeeze.

"I never want you to," she replied, looking up into his eyes with longing. She pulled away slightly to reach up and touch the edge of his mask, her smile tender. There was desire in her voice, as well as a spark in her eyes that he knew all too well. And while he could've spent hours trapped in that intimate moment, they did have guests to attend to. That was evident as Meg herself appeared to drag them away back towards the main party.

The cake was grand. He could tell the women had put a lot of thought into its design when they'd ordered it. Four tiers of solid white were intricately decorated with deep red swirling patterns, a single stemless rose laid sideways as its topper. It was almost too beautiful to cut into, but as Eliza reached up and slid her finger across the bottom of the icing, much to her mother's horror, Erik knew it was best they begin to pass it out. Christine seemed nervous as she picked up the large knife that had been left by its base for their use, staring at the blade as if it were made of hardened poison. Erik realized with fear in his heart what memories holding a knife must bring back to her now and quickly placed his hand overtop hers, slipping the sharp side into the cake without another moment's hesitation. Christine's face once again lifted as she allowed him to take over from there, gratefully stepping back to collect herself. When the guests and children were equally satisfied with the sweet delight he immediately turned out from the crowd and took Christine's hands in his, holding them together up to his chest.

"Christine, I'm so sorry, I didn't think for one moment about your sensitivities. Please tell me this day has not been ruined for you," he pleaded, searching her eyes for ghosts. He knew all too well what triggered his past demons, and now he knew she herself carried those same shackles. He had seen it plainly on her face, the sudden whiteness it had taken on speaking so much more than words ever could. He pulled her in close and embraced her, tucking his chin in over her shoulder.

"Is this what it's like for you?" she whispered. "Do the nightmares follow you into the waking world as well?"

He pulled back to see tears forming in her eyes, and the sight all but crumbled him. He gently kissed each of her now closed eyelids, not daring himself to allow her to cry on the day of their wedding.

"Christine, I know what you're feeling now, all too well...and it isn't easy to deal with but you are a strong woman. I believe that, because I've seen it time and time again. And one day these memories will fade, you'll see. You'll hardly remember them. For we'll replace them all, every single painful moment, with happier ones. I promise you that."

Christine smiled, nodding her head as she sniffled. "I know we will, my love. I know. And today shall be the first of many."

Her smile caused him to sigh in relief as he kissed her quickly, turning to take her hand in his. "I know what will help. Come."

He walked her over to the throng of their many guests and left her standing beside Adelaide, her guardian reaching up to squeeze her shoulder in tender affection. He then walked over to the pianist of the band and instructed him to begin playing the simple sheet music he'd left with him earlier. The old man smiled and pulled the paper out from behind his own booklet, giving Erik a nod that he was ready. He then began to play a simple pattern, a lighthearted melody that would keep the tempo of the song he'd written lively, all the while still being tender in sound.

Eyes began to fall on him as the sound of music once more floated through the air in the ballroom. On cue to the piano, another band member stepped up and passed Gustave's violin to Erik's awaiting hands, the weight of the wood feeling heavier in his hand than it had throughout the entirety of the previous night, when he had spent countless hours polishing the instrument, changing it's strings and tuning it until it sounded more miraculous than even his own did. He gazed throughout the crowd as he tucked it up under his chin, raising the bow in his free hand. No one in the opera house had ever heard his music before, it was a gift only Christine and Adelaide had ever been graced with. Yet now all eyes rested on him, excited to hear the orchestrations of their artistic director in his true setting. Truth be told though, the only eyes he even noticed in the many faces that watched him were the large chocolate ones down in center, those glistening orbs already watering with joyful tears as she brought her hands up together under her chin in anticipated delight.

He only hoped she would like what she heard. He considered himself a master of the violin, having been playing it over a decade now, and considered his skill on it only secondary to instruments with keys in his opinion. Yet looking down at Christine's eager face made him nervous, and he felt as though he were about to play for the first time ever. He tried to swallow his doubts as he cleared his throat and nodded to his audience.

"This one, ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate to my bride, Christine."

The minute the hairs of the bow touched down on the strings of his father-in-law's instrument he felt himself grow more confident, the rest of the world falling away. The song he played was tender and slow, coming straight from his heart, but also lively enough that it would resemble a more folk-like sound such as the ones he knew his wife would have grown up listening to. He never once looked up as he played, absorbed in the sounds his fingers created as he felt himself swaying to the rhythm in time. It was only on the last long note that he dared raise his eyes once more to the audience and his wife.

When he did they cheered. It was a roaring applause, Christine and Adelaide louder than everyone else in the room combined. Erik turned to sheepishly hand the violin back to the man who'd given it to him. The man's eyes were wide as he stared down at the instrument he now held, as if the sounds it had just made were still bewitching him. Erik smiled in satisfaction, stepping back towards the main floor. Christine's tiny body collided into him the minute he did, fiercely embracing his torso. The applause had died down and now Erik could hear the distinct sound of rain as it came pouring down onto the roof of the hotel. It must have started during his solo, for it hadn't been raining before. In fact, he couldn't recall seeing a single cloud outside all day.

"Do you hear that Erik?" Christine asked with adoration in her voice. Happy tears fell from her eyes. "You made the angels themselves weep. That was more perfect than I ever dreamed it could be!"

Erik rejoiced, knowing he had caused her such happiness. He also worried about the rain as it seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, knowing many of his guests were far from home and that the rain would only make the streets more slippery for their carriages as it progressed to fall. Nadir seemed to understand the look in his eyes as he thought this, for he approached them and lightly touched Christine's shoulder, getting her attention.

"With the rain coming down as it is madame, perhaps now would be a good time to dismiss your lovely guests? It is rather late, you know, and while I for one love an all night festival, I know around here it is the norm to return to one's home before the sun arises on the next day."

The man's voice was laced with humor, causing Erik to wonder just how many times in his youth the foreigner had spent out on the town until sunrise, in the arms of friends and women alike. Christine must have thought the same thing, for she giggled and blushed, turning to face the clock in the room. It was just past midnight, and realizing this Christine quickly voiced that their celebration should indeed conclude. After all, people had to return to work the next day and surely she was just as surprised as he was that the Larson girls had not yet fallen asleep under a table. The sugar must have been fueling them, for as Christine made a closing toast and thanked everyone for coming Erik could still see them in the foreground, running around and chasing one another.

The guests began to dwindle out slowly over the next hour, Erik and Christine doing their best to thank each party individually on their way out. Even Breanne ran up and hugged Christine quickly before disappearing into the night on the arm of a woman in a red dress Erik didn't recognize. He could tell by the way Christine was eyeing the pair that she was dying to chase after the two and find out just who was wooing her newest friend and handmaiden. However she settled herself as Erik eyed her and called her a gossip, causing her to smack him in the shoulder and defend herself in faux offense.

Eventually it was just they two, the Larsons, the Girys, and Nadir left in the hotel lobby. George shook his hand and gave him a final congratulations as the girls swarmed Christine, fluttering about happily about how well the evening had went, Eliza playing with the train of Christine's dress, bringing it up around her shoulders like a shawl. He noticed Anna was barely fitting into the evening dress she had chosen to wear tonight, her large pregnant stomach stretching the copper fabric.

"I apologize for keeping you all out so late. I realize Anna should be on bedrest by now," Erik stated, hoping the night hadn't been too adverse to the woman's condition.

George simply laughed. "Aye, she's due any day now. But believe me, she would not have missed this for the world. She boxed my ears like I was a toddler for even suggesting she should stay home! But hey, what do I know? I may be a doctor but to her I will always be just George."

"She seems to rather enjoy 'just George', my friend. You must have really impressed her back in the day, even before you had your MD," Erik chuckled.

"Actually, to be honest I think upon meeting her she thought me a loon," George admitted, his cheeks turning as red as his hair. "You see, I first laid eyes on her waiting for a train at Grand Central Station back in the states. I was walking and staring at her so intently that I tripped, sending my briefcase down onto the tracks below. I had originally been on my way to Philadelphia for a conference, but without my much needed papers I simply followed her onto her train, riding all the way down to Virginia just because I refused to let her go without at least learning her name! When she found out I had all but stalked her she was terribly put off."

"Can you blame her? That was quite a distance to travel just for a name," Erik laughed.

George smiled, lost in his memories. "Well, as you can see I got more than a name. In fact, I ended up giving her mine only a few short months later! But enough about us, today is a day for you and Christine! We should get going and leave you two to your honeymoon. I'm sure you're eager to leave. Have you told her where you two are going yet?"

"I haven't even told her about this yet," Erik admitted, sliding the bronze key from his pocket, showing it to the doctor before once more stowing it away. George laughed and patted his shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief. He and George had spent a long time preparing his wedding gift to Christine, as well as the newlywed trip they would begin in the morning. He had kept it all to himself though, excited to present each and every detail of the gift to his new bride individually, as to make the day a truly perfect one for her, one full of surprises she would never forget.

George led his family out the door, holding Eliza in his arms as she finally seemed to start to crash. Nadir followed suit, ushering Adelaide and Meg along with him, stopping only to hand Erik Gustave's violin so he would not forget it.

"Thank you," Erik said, taking the instrument case from him as he eyed the Girys a little ways off. He slipped the strap over his shoulder so the instrument rested across his back. "But know that my thanks only goes so far. Do not hurt my sister, Nadir. Her affections towards you seemed rather clear tonight and I don't believe I've seen her looking this happy in years. If your intentions were just brief in the mood of the party however please tell her so tonight. I don't want her to get her hopes up."

The Persian smiled. "My boy, I would never string along such a delight as your dear older sister. What I discovered spending time with her tonight were feelings I thought I'd long since buried. Yet simply looking at her warms this old man's heart! I assure you what I intend is only her truest happiness, should she allow me to remain a figure in her life come morningtime."

Erik smiled. "Well, with those words you have my blessing, friend. Just make sure you get her and Meg home safely tonight."

Christine approached at the very end of their conversation, taking the crook of Erik's arm in her hand. "Are we not going back home to the opera house with them?"

Erik smiled down at her, nodding to the Persian in a way that made it known he politely wished for the man to dismiss himself. Nadir returned that nod with a clever smile, walking back to Adelaide and placing a loving arm around her waist as Meg giggled and the three of them exited the building. Christine was giving him a look of confusion as he too led her towards the door.

"And why would we return to the opera house Christine?" he mused with a smile. Christine eyed him warily as a carriage pulled up at the end of the cobblestone walkway. The rain was pouring now and Erik knew that although her leg was mostly healed, his bride could easily lose her balance attempting to walk on the wet pavement. He scooped her up as she laughed and carried her through the rain. They were both soaked by the time he closed the carriage door behind them. As they departed, bumping down the road, Christine rung out her hair.

"Well, if we aren't going home then where are we going?" she asked with a smile, answering his previous question with one of her own.

Erik reached into his wet pocket and once more pulled out the key, holding it before Christine's eyes by its black satin ribbon.

"I never said we weren't going home."

.

.

.

.


	45. The Perfect Ending

The Perfect Ending

1871

Christine

Christine continued to ring out her hair as the carriage bumped along the road, watching the tiny beads of water fall off the ends of her ruined hairstyle with amusement. Outside the rain was finally beginning to die down, yet on the roof of the carriage it remained thunderous in volume, effectively shutting off any conversation she and Erik attempted to have. Eventually they stopped trying altogether, settling into a comfortable silence as Erik swung the little bronze key around in front of her with a smug, teasing grin on his face.

Christine eyed the little key with narrowed eyes as it swayed back and forth in the air, wondering what it unlocked. She had tried to ask Erik numerous times about their plans for after the wedding over the past few weeks, but he had changed the subject quickly each time she'd brought it up, in a way she hadn't noticed before as purposeful distraction. It was evident now though that he hadn't wanted her to know whatever it was he'd been planning. Her husband seemed happy with this achievement, having maintained the element of surprise that he'd so obviously been striving for.

She smiled to herself as they journeyed on, looking down at the small golden band that now lay perfectly nested alongside her engagement ring. That tiny slip of precious metal had changed so many things these past few hours. So suddenly she was now a wife! She pondered how different married life would be for her as she looked up from under her eyelashes to steal a glance at her husband's hand, which rested by his side. The matching band on his finger was quite the statement piece. She could've admired it all night, simply content knowing she was his and he was hers forever more.

Their carriage ride lasted approximately twenty minutes, the bumps of the cobblestone eventually smoothing out as the roads' texture changed. Christine tried to peek out the window then, to see where they were, only to have Erik slide across their seated gap to her side, blocking her motion and putting his arm around her shoulders casually, as if he weren't purposely obstructing the view but merely being affectionate. She laughed at him, accepting defeat, and laid her head against his chest, smiling to herself as she felt him raise his hand up and gently run it through her damp curls. She could feel him pausing at the end of each repetitive motion, waiting for her hair to spring back up of its own accord. It seemed to be amusing him greatly, watching it dance for him.

At last the carriage stalled to a stop and she quickly shot up in her seat, giving Erik an excited look. He exited the carriage first, holding open the door for her. As she peered out into the night she noticed the street before her was mostly dark, save for a few scattered gas lamps barely visible in the silver mist of the drizzle that remained of the rainstorm. She stepped out lightly onto the folding platform step, feeling stress on her left leg at the downward motion. Erik seemed to notice and quickly took hold of her waist before she continued on, alleviating her discomfort as he braced her in support. As she set foot on the road she looked about, curious as to where they were. To the left, in the far distance, the City of Lights they'd ventured from glistened brightly like a clustered constellation. Yet to her right she noticed something she found even more wonderful to look at. It was a large stone home, old from the looks of it, but strong in character and positively charming, even in the dark.

Erik didn't give her much time to gawk at it. She found herself being scooped up into his arms in mere seconds. She squealed with delight then as he moved with great speed towards the house. Though she couldn't make out its exact features in the dark, she could still tell it was quite the grand structure. Natural shades of grey and brown flecked throughout its surface, with just a hint of blues and greens tinging the stonework. He quickly produced the key he'd presented to her earlier and thrust it into the door with one hand, shoving aside the heavy wood with his shoulder as he set her down inside the foyer with a proud look on his face.

"Is this…? Erik...?"

Christine nearly wept, looking around the foyer of the home with large, watering eyes. Glass gas lamps lit the main living area every few meters along the walls, large windows lining the spaces between them. Moonlight streamed in brilliantly through each of those regal panes, that white luminescence reflecting its image in the panels of the dark, polished hardwood floors below. In front of her a large iron staircase led up to the floor above. She drifted forward and ran her hand gently over the lowest part of its railing, letting out a small happy sigh as she kept moving throughout the main floor, almost dancing in her movements, her heart soaring with joy. The room to her right was bare of furniture save for a tall brick fireplace, the end of it leading into a large kitchen and dining room. Through there she circled back around through two more empty rooms, the first just as empty and the next the room the one she'd started in. She was stepping backwards in awe of it all when she felt Erik's arms gently encircle her from behind, holding her closely.

"Well?" he asked her quietly.

"Erik, I don't know what to say," she breathed.

"Say you love it."

"You know I do," she laughed, leaning her head back against his chest. "It's marvelous. Simply marvelous."

"It will look even better when the furniture arrives," he assured her. "George will be here to sign for it while we're away. He'll make sure it all gets placed accordingly."

Christine turned around to face him with a puzzled expression. "While we're away?"

Erik smiled. "But of course. You thought this house would be the only surprise I had in store for you?"

"Erik, this house is more than enough! We don't have to go anywhere special for our honeymoon. I'm more than content to just spend the week with you here, in Paris."

Erik smiled, pulling her in close and kissing her lightly. "Christine please, indulge your husband. Trust me, you will enjoy this trip very much."

"Alright...but I have one condition before we go."

"Name it, my love. It's yours."

Christine bit her lip. "First, we enjoy tonight. I'd like very much to see our master suite."

She didn't need to tell Erik twice as he once more lifted her into the air and ascended up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time most eagerly. Christine felt her heartbeat thumping away with excitement as he set her down at the top, allowing her to lead the rest of the way as she held his hand behind her. There were five rooms on their top floor it seemed, with the master suite at the very end. She could tell it was the master chamber because the doorframe was set larger than the others, accented by finely carved wood that swirled in design around its edges. The other rooms they passed by were all empty, and Christine wondered in the back of her mind what on Earth they would ever do with so much living space. She then blushed fiercely, thinking of the perfect way to occupy them one day, knowing Erik had probably thought of just the same.

The door to their bedchamber was shut tight as she approached it. She turned back to Erik with a questioning gaze as she gripped the doorknob and he smiled and nodded for her to proceed, seeming almost amused by her apprehension. With one sharp inhalation she then twisted the large golden knob and pushed open the door.

She gasped at the room. A large four-poster bed made up most of it, its dark red curtains pulled back on each of its posts by thick, golden ropes. A colorful Persian rug ran underneath the bed across the floor, its intricate designs catching her gaze as she shifted slightly in footing to follow its patterns with her eyes. Her eyes continued to drift until they came to rest upon the two dressers on either side of the room. They glowed softly, illuminated by a variety of differently sized candles that were casting soft orange shadows throughout the room, giving it a warm and inviting atmosphere.

"May I?"

Erik's voice was barely above a whisper, shaky and uncertain as Christine felt his hands lightly take hold of the ties on the back of her dress. She couldn't speak then, her throat dry and her excitement fading to timidness as she simply nodded her head in silence. Erik's fingers were steady as he worked, and she could feel him pull each strand of satin out of their loops individually, one at a time with a maddeningly careful slowness. It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time she felt the two pieces of fabric fall to either side, exposing her back to him. A cool drift of air touched her spine then, but that wasn't what made her shiver. Rather it was the three gentle kisses she felt bestowed upon her shoulders that did that.

She turned around to face Erik, seeing her own shyness reflected in his golden eyes, and reached up her hands to undo the buttons of his suit jacket, sliding it up off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor behind him. The sound of the heavy fabric falling to the hardwood was the only sound in the entire house in that moment, save for their mutual uneven breathing. She removed his mask next, wanting to look upon him in full for such a night. He didn't flinch a muscle as she did so, and that made her smile warmly, knowing just how intimate he considered exposing that which he concealed so protectively. She reached up to touch the right side of his face, trailing her fingertips soft as a feather down the ridges and divots of it, stopping at his new scar with a frown, remembering with guilt that he'd been injured trying to free her and that he'd been forever marked because of it.

She prayed it didn't hurt terribly. While she knew his deformity caused him no pain of its own accord, she had seen the cruel stitches Dr. Larson had had to sew so haphazardly to fix the large patch of skin that had been so violently torn away. It had been a mess of black specks all across his face, and each time he'd spoken as she'd changed the dressings over the course of their shared recoveries he'd flinched slightly, feeling them pull as he moved. She sincerely hoped the pain was no more now that the strings were out.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," he whispered, reaching up to capture her hand in his. "If that's what you're wondering."

She nodded her head, glad for his understanding of her concerns, and let her hands slip away to rest on his chest as he spoke. His heartbeat was racing beneath her palm and that thrilled her, making her feel desirable as he gazed down at her with a hunger in his eyes. She knew he was letting her set the pace, and for that she felt grateful, for she wanted to savor each and every moment of their first shared evening, not rushing a single feeling or movement so that she may forever remember it fondly as the years moved on.

As she undid his shirt and let it too fall away she paused to once more look upon the many scars that marred his chest. Their one starlight night had been furiously passionate and she hadn't had the time to pause to truly look upon them then. But now she did. Her fingertips explored them of their own accord, tracing down the panes of his chest towards his abdomen, following those ancient, rose colored lines tenderly. As they moved lower he seemed to shudder, and she knew it was because of her and not the slight chill in the air. That only seemed to excite her more, to know just how easily his body reacted under her touch.

She circled behind him, never letting her hands leave his skin, to look upon his back. She'd once felt the thick scars there before, but had never seen them with her own two eyes. She gasped, taking it the sight of them, and was immediately embarrassed by her reaction as he hung his head shamefully in response. It wasn't a gasp of disgust however, which is probably what he thought, rather a gasp of shock. The bands of scars that ran down his pale skin were thick red rivers of mangled flesh, wide and long from where they'd stretched as he'd grown. It was a grotesque sight, warped and twisted, though nowhere near as warped and twisted as the man who must've done such things to him. Gazing upon them she wondered how he could have possibly endured such, having been only a child at the time.

 _My poor Erik. Let me show you the love you have always deserved._

Christine took a step back from him and gave a tug on her unlaced dress, letting the fabric slide over her hips and onto the floor in a puddle around her ankles. Erik must've heard the noise, for he stiffened greatly, yet didn't turn his head. She felt the dark, crisp air falling over her bare body but found she did not feel shy anymore then, fully exposed to the night. Rather she felt daring. She took a step forward and wrapped her arms around him, letting her hands once more explore his chest while she kissed each and every scar on his back. As she leaned forward more her bare torso lightly brushed his skin. She heard him let out a low hiss in response.

He turned then, wild-eyed, and took her into his arms, kissing her hard. As he did she felt a roughness to his forearm as it brushed her side, and pulled back to grasp his hand. It was then she noticed thick gauze wrapped around his entire lower arm.

"My love, did you hurt yourself?" she asked, distraught at the thought of him knowing any more pain in his life.

"It's nothing, Christine," he replied smoothly. "Merely a scratch."

He kissed her once more, pulling her forwards as he moved backwards towards their bed. At its edge he turned them so that she was falling into the soft comforter before him. She felt her lioness behavior slip away then as he pulled back to stare down at her, his eyes drifting over each and every curve of her body. She blushed, suddenly very self-conscious of herself under his intense stare. Did he like what he saw? She'd matured greatly over the years but still found herself to be slightly on the skinny side. She found herself subconsciously moving her hand to cover her lower half, her other one raising to her chest. Erik's face immediately fell at her actions, and at once she found both her wrists pinned above her head in one strong grasp.

"Don't you _ever_ feel the need to hide yourself, Christine. Not from me."

He all but growled his words at her, leaning down once more to kiss her lips furiously. She moaned with pleasure as his kisses then trailed downward, teasing her neck and collarbone around her diamond choker. She made a movement with her hands to take it off but was stopped, Erik's hands gently pulling hers away.

"Leave it on," he whispered, gazing into her eyes. "You look like a goddess."

Over the next few minutes Christine found her hands twisting in fists in their blankets as Erik tasted each and every inch of her naked skin. He seemed to especially savor the scar on her thigh, teasing it with his rough lips as if he could kiss away all the pain it brought her.

When she could no longer stand the anticipation she sat up and helped to remove the last of the few remaining layers of clothing between them, drinking in the sight of her husband standing before her, nude in the candlelight. She had never seen a naked man before, and found him to be strikingly beautiful as he moved once more overtop of her, almost like a panther on the prowl. Positioned just above her, Christine felt a tingling sensation travel up her spine as she gazed up into his eyes, those amber orbs burning with desire. She felt him hesitating, as if out of fear that she would stop him now, and kissed him once, gently, pressing her body forward against his.

"Please," she whispered, almost begging him. "I need this...I need _you_."

With her reassuring words the last of his apprehensions seemed to fall away. What proceeded then could only be described by her as indescribable. She felt a sharp pain, followed by no pain at all. Waves of pleasure washed over her time and time again that night as she felt herself pressed deeper and deeper into their bedspread, her husband murmuring loving words in her ear and against the base of her throat as they danced an intricate dance to a rhythm only they two could hear. The blood in her veins sang in response to the rhythm of their heartbeats, beating so closely together they were a symphony all their own.

The music of the night, their music, was truly miraculous to her.

* * *

As the candles around them began to go out of their own accord their thin whips of smoke trailed upwards towards the ceiling, spiraling against the plaster in dancing shadows. Christine smiled as she watched those tiny curls of smoke, curious as to the time but not wanting to move an inch from her content place in Erik's arms to check. She nuzzled close to his chest, feeling his fingertips trailing up and down her back in gentle circles. She turned slightly to face him as he did so, and lit up as she noticed him smiling down at her with all the happiness of the world.

"I love you," she whispered, still breathless from their many endeavors, the words quiet and hoarse as they left her lips.

He kissed the top of her head lovingly. "As I love you, my angel."

Muscles aching with a blissful soreness, Christine found herself tired yet very much awake all at once. She knew she needed sleep before their trip in the morning, otherwise she'd be a bore of a companion on the way to wherever it was they were headed. But how could she sleep now though, with that thrilling sensation she'd felt earlier still riveting throughout her entire body? She felt alive - electric and aflame and oh so cherished.

"You should at least try and get some rest," Erik suggested with a laugh, as if he were reading her thoughts. "Though I'd love to keep you awake hours more we do have a carriage arriving early tomorrow morning to fetch us."

"How could I possibly find rest now, when I feel ever so restless inside?" she teased with a sigh, snuggling closer to him.

"I could sing to you," he offered softly. "Would that help?"

Christine felt herself beaming at his suggestion, nodding her head against his cool skin. Under their sheets she felt his hand find hers as he laced their fingers together, their wedding rings touching one another, an intimate gesture to her even in their current, most intimate setting. He then began to sing softly, barely a whisper of a sound. The words he sung were in a foreign tongue, and not knowing the language she could only pick out phrases here and there that sounded similar to French ones.

After a moment she stopped trying to decipher the meaning behind his words altogether, and instead listened to the infliction in which he voiced them, feeling her heart swell with pride and adoration at that the way his voice kissed each and every syllable that left his lips. He obviously sang to her words of love, and sang that as a man in love would. It had been so long now since she'd heard him sing to her. She'd almost forgotten how enchanting he was. How hypnotizing his singing left her feeling. It was like he was everywhere, all at once, in the air she breathed and all around her, closing in. His vocals caressed her, and feeling warm and secure she began to drift off into a content, lull sleep.

It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

.

.

.

.

* * *

 **How did we like the wedding night? I was going for tasteful. Hopefully it came across that way. It was a chapter supposed to be more focused on the intimacy of their actions rather than the act itself. Anyways, stay tuned. Erik has one more surprise for Christine and it's a sweet one (chanting ensues: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF)! Then, we can all return to the opera house for Don Juan...but with a twist? Gasp! I can't wait. Look at me, I'm shaking.**

 **Please remember to drop a review, good friends!**

 **Nicole**


	46. Heaven By the Sea

Heaven by the Sea

1871

 _Erik_

The sunrise that awoke Erik the next morning was perhaps the most precious one he had ever beheld. Not due to the everyday phenomenon itself, although he had to admit the rouge tints of decedent orange streaming in through the window were quite appeasing to the eyes, rather it was because, for the first time in his life, he was not alone for a sunrise. Not below ground nor lonely in the least. For nestled quietly in his arms lay his small wife, her cheek pressed to his chest and her soft curls spilling out over his torso like a dark fan.

He had been awake a good few moments now, but hadn't dared to move a single muscle in fear that he would wake Christine and shatter what he could only deduce to be a perfect dream. Rather he simply lay there, content and feeling rather whole, staring down in admiration at his sleeping wife. She seemed so at peace in her dreams, her appearance the pinnacle of innocence as she lay lost to the world, the sunrise bathing her in alluring light that complimented her tousled hair and long lashes with golden flecks.

When the sun had fully risen Christine shifted slightly, smiling in her sleep, which made his heart dance within his chest. His wife would never know just how much joy she had brought him since their reunion, and he was glad that in his arms she seemed to be finding even a fraction of that same, rare satisfaction. He raised a hand and brushed her curls aside, moving them away from her face to kiss her forehead gently. When he did so she did not wake, yet stretched her left arm upwards in response, pulling their sheets downward off her body, the black fabric falling away without a care.

Erik glanced down her naked form, still pressed snugly against his. Every curve of her soft skin seemed to mold against him almost perfectly, as if she had been designed by a higher power to fit there and there alone. He raised his hand and gently trailed it down her side, his fingertips stopping at her hips as he smiled devilishly, knowing just how many times he had held them much rougher the previous night from every possible angle he could come up with.

He glanced over to his nightstand, where he had finally taken off and set down her necklace and earrings sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Seeing her wear them when she'd performed at the opera house had been one thing, yet seeing them on her bare body had been another thrill entirely. They were, by far, the greatest investment he'd ever made, and he knew now that whenever someone complimented her wearing them she would blush that sweet pink color he loved so much to arise out of her, remembering them as they were last night. Thinking of her like that, he couldn't help but wonder what she would look like in other fine jewelry, and nothing but. Pearls perhaps? To complement her fair skin? He rather liked the mental image his mind painted of her standing with a long string of luminescent pearls nestled between her breasts.

His daydreaming was interrupted by quiet mumblings from Christine as she stirred awake. When he looked up at her he noticed her face to be twisted up in a humorous expression.

"See something you like?" she teased quietly, noting the desire in his eyes.

"Indeed I do, madame."

She giggled as he rolled overtop her, propping himself up on his elbows as he kissed her. He sighed blissfully then as he felt her arms wrap around him, her nails softly tracing lines up and down his back and over his shoulders. It was a comfort to know just how easily married life suited them, how quickly it felt to him that this was the way things had always been between them. Surely they had always awoken as such, together and smiling and so much in love? After just a single day he could scarcely remember his life before it was shared wholly with her's. He leaned down to kiss her again, enjoying the pleasurable sound that passed from her lips to his own as he did so.

They spent the next hour entangled with one another, silently agreeing with touches and whispers to resume once more where they'd left off the night before. Erik didn't think he could ever tire of the close proximity of their shared intimacy, his wife whispering his name in pleasurable slurs while he found himself in, what he could only assume to be, the singular space between life and death where nothing else but pleasurable happiness existed. When they were once more lying side by side, spent and staring at the ceiling with smiles on their faces and their hands intertwined, Christine asked him when their carriage would be arriving.

By then Erik had completely forgotten of the very plans he himself had orchestrated. How distracting his beautiful wife could be. Would it always be like this? Attempting to wake in the morning only to be drawn back down by her eager hands? He could most definitely live with that if that were to be the case.

Standing up, he shivered at the slight chill in the air. He wasn't used to walking around in the nude, and with an awkward swiftness pulled on his clothes before wandering over to their discarded wedding wares from the previous night to pull out his pocket watch from his coat.

He was glad to see it was still early. Their carriage wouldn't arrive until ten to get them and it was only a little past eight. Erik pulled a dressing robe from the wardrobe he'd stocked for his new bride and walked it over to her. As she climbed out of bed and slowly began to pull it on his found his gaze transfixed on her, finding every stretch and twist of her body simply alluring. In fact, he almost found it more sensual, to watch her don clothes rather than remove them. This was a marital sensuality, something otherwise so very private. He stepped forward and took the ties of it in his own hands, winding them around her waist in a loose knot, letting his fingers linger on her thin hips. He then kissed the top of her head and led her to their washroom, showing her where all her womanly necessities could be found.

She seemed utterly delighted when she saw the size of the bathtub he'd had installed in the house, and to that he was glad. He'd specifically chosen the larger size due to his own height, and as such with her standing beside it it resembled a swimming pond. He laughed at that image while he left his bride to prepare herself for the day, slipping her clothing from her new wardrobe through the cracked doorway with a smile. While he'd only bought her a few things, knowing she'd want to pick out her own day-to-day attire the next time they were out, he still smiled knowing that while the simple dresses he'd chosen were lovely on their own, they would be exquisite on her, just as her riding outfit had been. Why, when he'd bought that brilliant blue ensemble not so long ago the salesman had droned on and on about its stitchwork, as if he'd ever cared to know such facts. He hadn't heard a single word of the sales pitch though. One look at its rich, deep color had been more than enough for him to want it. For he'd stood there imagining the contrast between that color and Christine's dark hair and had nearly lost his very breath.

While Christine went about readying herself Erik removed the sheets from their bed, placing fresh ones in their mark. Not that he expected George to enter their chambers when the furniture came on but the off chance he did he knew his friend did not want to visualize the details of their wedding night. No, it was far better instead that Breanne simply launder them after she finished moving in tomorrow to begin her new position.

He furrowed his brow at the linens as he picked them up to toss them in the basket, staring at the small droplets of blood on the dark fabric and hoping that Christine hadn't felt too much pain at the lose of her virtue. The sound of her heavenly singing could be heard from the washroom though, a delightful and lighthearted folk song that he recognized as one she used to sing when she was younger, and he knew by the mirth in her voice that all was well, and without another thought proceeded down the stairs to make them a small breakfast before they departed, fetching their pre-packed suitcases from the hall closet and placing them by the entryway.

He was humming to himself when he heard Christine begin to descend the staircase. The rather empty home seemed to echo every sound it made, and he found he could hear her footsteps almost too clearly, the pace of them far too slow and uneven for his liking. He often wondered how the strength in her damaged leg was doing, but found the question seemed to bother her when he asked, so he preferred not to inquire. It seemed obvious to him though that she still had a long way to go. Which was odd to him, seeing as how she'd done so well throughout their wedding. Not once had she ever asked for her cane, not even after they'd danced. Perhaps that day had simply been a gift though, her body complying with her wish for a joyful, uneventful evening. He was glad she had gotten that wish if that had been the case.

She was limping slightly as she entered the kitchen, the movement apparent to him even with her beaming smile and the distracting emerald dress she now wore. He returned the gesture, not wanting her to know he knew she was in pain. He quickly offered her a seat though as he brought her her tea, and asked how she felt this morning in a general enough manner as to not arouse suspicion. She simply replied to him that she had never been better, or happier, and so he left it at that.

Their carriage arrived on time, the swift knock at the door sounding throughout the empty house like gunshots, making them both jump in their seats, which they played off with a nervous laughter as they collected themselves. Erik excused himself to answer the call and handed over their bags to the driver, carrying Gustave's violin and Christine's cane out behind the man, knowing Christine wouldn't want him to pack it but assuming she'd need it as the week droned on. When all was ready he walked Christine outside, letting her turn around to admire the exterior of their new home at her humble request. She sighed as she looked it over, seeming almost sad to be leaving it so soon. Erik himself had loved the old home when he'd first passed by it, and had known from that very first moment there would never be another one more perfectly suited for the two of them.

The ride to Port Roi would be lengthy, lasting almost a total of five hours, and although he didn't tell Christine their destination he did warn her of the length of the trip. She seemed curiouser and curiouser as the time passed on and she sat leaning out the window, taking in the sights of the rolling hills and small villages throughout the rural countryside of France. The farther they traveled from Paris the more open things seemed to get, the air cooler and crisper, almost cleaner even. Every once in a while Erik would notice Christine recognize a landmark. Something small like a sign or a distinctly shaped tree. He knew she recognized them because she would lean back, puzzled, and then shake her head as if she were confused by her own thoughts.

He hoped his surprise would please her. He honestly wasn't sure what to expect when they arrived though. For all he knew the little cottage that he'd purchased could be falling to pieces, worn with time and unsuitable for habitation. He hadn't made a trip to see it in person. He'd simply written to the bank that had taken over ownership of the properties on the tiny shoreline of Palge Norde and given them what details he could remember from Christine's stories, hoping they could fill in the gaps and knew of the place he described to them. When they told him the property was available and hadn't been occupied in over a decade, he knew he had at last found it and quickly sealed the deal. The fact that it had barely cost him anything though made him worry about the state they would find it in.

Christine had always spoken so fondly of her days by the sea with her father. She'd wept to him as a child, describing those lost happy days running through the sand. Yet she'd also smiled so often, enamored as she'd recounted tales of pirates and mermaids that her father had told her well into those long ago nights. He hoped she would still find wonder in gazing out at the open sea as a fully grown woman. Hearing so many stories of this place had always made him feel as if he were a part of those memories for her, and he beamed knowing that now at last he would be. Just as he'd promised her at their reception, each and every sad memory of hers would soon be replaced with newer, happier ones. Ones without the grief and strife they'd both become far too familiar with this past year. He knew the fond memories of her childhood home were probably tainted by the loss of her father, and hoped that by going back he could help her to replenish the good times and grow to cherish them once more.

Christine eventually drifted off to a light sleep, leaning against his shoulder. He smiled and placed his arm around her in support, glad she was finally getting the rest he had so greedily denied her during the previous night. She slept the entirety of the last two hours of the trip, even when the roads became increasingly bumpy with the veritable shift in landscape. It wasn't until the smell of salt started to tinge the air and the crying of gulls could be heard that she wearily raised her head, still half in a dream.

"The birds," she whispered groggily, mostly to herself. "They peck. I'm not supposed to chase them because then they get mad and peck at me, and I don't like that...oh no, not one bit."

Erik laughed as she once more shut her eyes, falling back to his shoulder heavily. He gently roused her, tapping the top of her head until she blinked herself into a waking state.

"Erik, what is it? Have we arrived?" she asked, rubbing her eyes and smoothing the top of her hair, fixing the little bits that now stood up humorously.

"Yes, my dear. We're here. Go ahead, look out the window and see."

Christine leaned over the window ledge and gasped, immediately straightening up with a squeal of delight. When she turned back to him her arms encircled him tightly, practically squeezing the life from him. He assumed he had done well based on her vice of a grip, and prided himself in her childlike delight.

"What are we waiting for, let's go!" she cried, pushing past him to open the carriage door as the horses came to a stop.

She didn't wait for his assistance, instead stepping straight out of the carriage of her own accord. Her leg buckled as she did so and she nearly fell, catching herself at the last second with a sharp wince. Erik cringed, imagining the twinge she must've felt for himself within his own leg. She quickly shook it off though, stretching her arms out wide and twirling about in the sunlight with the brightest smile he'd ever seen adorning her face. She looked around in wonder until her gaze finally came to a rest on her childhood cottage. Immediately then she fell into an almost dreamlike state, not waiting for him as she slowly ascended the little grassy hill towards the aging stone home.

The cottage's age and lack of care were evident, even from a distance. The windows were slightly cracked and the door ajar as if the hinges no longer tightened to a full close. The roof was dented in as well, probably from a bad storm, yet the way Christine looked at it one would have sworn it was Versailles itself. She leaned against the side of its exterior contently, staring out into the wind for a moment before turning to him with a grin and beckoning him forward with a hook of her finger.

He couldn't resist her draw, stepping quickly up the mound towards her. When he reached her side she stopped him, reaching up to turn his chin outwards, and what she'd been staring at before now caught his fascination quite wholly. It was the sea itself, the English Channel stretching out before them miles and miles into the horizon, that peerless lapis water seeming to stretch out to the very end of the world itself. The sun reflected on its surface, blinding yet beautiful to behold, like a giant golden coin somehow inexplicably afloat. Above the waves gulls flew in white flocks, flapping their wings against the strong winds.

"Have you ever seen the sea before, Erik?" Christine asked softly.

"No, love. Never. But I can see now why it enchants you so. It's breathtaking."

The cool winter air was chilly, even in the direct sunlight, and eventually they retired into the cottage to escape the bitter breeze. Erik brought their bags in and set them by the door, noticing Christine glare at her cane when he laid it against the wall. When he turned around he was glancing at a rather small interior, studying it. It was cramped as far as space went, the main room being the kitchen, sitting, and dining area all in one, and behind where Christine stood were three doors, one to her father's old room, one to her's, and one to a washroom, he assumed. Christine noticed him looking about and shyly began to wring her hands together.

"This must be the first time you've come here," she concluded. "I know it isn't much in the way of looks I'm afraid. Father always felt bad for that, saying he wished he could've given us more. I don't remember ever feeling like we lacked anything though. To me this place was perfection."

Erik smiled. "It's more than perfect, Christine. It's a part of you and your past, which makes it sublime."

Sublime with memories or not the place still needed tidying up. They spent much of the rest of that day organizing and clearing out old and broken things, sweeping the floor and cleaning off counter and table space. Gustave's old bedroom was a very tight squeeze, the bed stripped and the frame of it wobbly as Erik tested it out. Christine's was even smaller, barely the size of a quarter of her dorm, yet she giggled and laughed as she flopped down onto the old settee that must have served as her bed back in the day, curling over to the side and reaching underneath it to pull out an ancient fairytale book from the dust cloud beneath, smiling as she opened it to where it had last been bookmarked when she was an eight year old child.

They made the walk into town that evening to get a few things for the cottage, enjoying the long and leisurely stroll down the winding roads that led there, happily chatting about Christine's childhood. Erik relished each and every tale she told, delighted by her animated features as she spoke of sandcastles, food festivals, and the traveling stage in town where she'd first had the honor of singing in front of a crowd. She told him she'd been terribly nervous that night and had hidden herself beneath the stage, fearful of how people would perceive her. According to her tale, her father had had to practically drag her out before the crowd, then remain by her side the entire time to keep her confidence up. She'd been glad she'd gone through with it though. She told him that she'd fallen in love with singing that night, and that people had smiled and cheered for her so loudly. A little boy had even given her a yellow daisy afterwards; the first boy she'd ever put under that enchanting spell of hers. Erik smiled, thinking of the poor boy and how shy he must've felt approaching her. It had probably been similar to the nerves he'd felt leaving her that first red rose in her dressing room.

Christine had been wise enough to agree to bring her cane with her on their walk, and about fifteen minutes into their journey the uneven road had her leaning against it for support. While the smooth flat surfaces of the opera house and their home didn't seem to bother her, this more natural landscape, with its twists and bumps, did. She didn't make a note of it however. Never ceased talking when she finally stopped carrying the crutch and starting using it. She didn't seem to want to draw attention to it and so he made sure not to make a peep about the damned thing since he didn't fancy spoiling their shared good mood.

They stopped to eat dinner at a small restaurant in the middle of town, then purchased simple linens and provisions for the cottage. While the town was small and the people polite, he still found that a few passerbys would stop and stare as they passed by on the street. Erik didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable with such sideways glances. After all, he was quite used to odd looks by now. Even with his beige, flesh colored mask it was still apparent that he hid something, and people, by right of nature, were curious things. It wasn't until a few passing woman giggled amongst themselves that he saw Christine begin to fall behind in her stride. He turned to her, perplexed.

"Everyone is staring," she told him quite simply, leaning against the nearest building, her face red with embarrassment.

"People always stare," Erik confirmed flatly, confused by her actions. She'd never once acted as though walking alongside him was something she was ashamed of. He couldn't hide the hurt he felt inside knowing that perhaps here, for some reason, she was.

"Not at _you_ ," she clarified, twisting the handle of her cane in her hands. "They're looking at me."

Erik laughed with relief, yet quickly straightened his face as his wife shot him a pointed look. He could understand how she felt, and noticed that some people were indeed eyeing her with curiosity.

"If you'd like, I could take off my mask. I guarantee you no one will gawk at you then," Erik offered with a smile, teasing her. He knew for sure no one would notice a young woman struggling with a cane if the devil himself were strolling beside her. He almost laughed at the mental image of himself walking down the street, exposed to the world with Christine limping beside him. Ah, what a pair they'd make. A battered angel and her lovestruck demon.

"That isn't necessary." Christine pushed off the wall with a smile, and in that smile he knew she was going to be fine. "I am ready to go back for the night though. It's getting a bit cold and though I hate to admit it, the chill is getting to me."

"As you wish."

The night fell upon them quickly as they made their way back to the cottage, the stars and moon alone their only light to show the way. By the time they got back Christine was worn down, setting her cane against the side of the kitchen wall and slumping into one of the dining chairs with exhaustion. Erik dug through their suitcases until he found the pain medication that George had prescribed for her and gave her an ample dose. The drugs seemed to work quickly, her face lulling to a content smile as she crossed her arms and sank against the tabletop wearily. Erik was glad too see her pain could be treated so easily, but drastically hated the near-intoxicated state she seemed to be slipping into. He didn't like the idea of her developing any sort of a dependence on the numbness opioids could bring. He'd read enough about that sort of thing to be cautious.

He sparked a quick fire in the stone fireplace nestled between the kitchen and the bedrooms, stoking it gently to warm the cottage as the seaside temperatures dropped ever more by the hour. He then set up Gustave's old bed with the linens they had bought and carried Christine to the room, changing her into one of the nightgowns he'd brought for her and tucking her in. He smiled as she twisted herself into the blankets and rolled over, completely lost to him. With a single light touch to her shoulder he whispered his goodnight blessings and made his way back into the main room, not feeling the least bit tired. A creature of habit, he knew he would have to get used to sleeping more at night, otherwise eventually Christine would worry for his health. But for now a little darkness was just what he needed.

He found himself doing odd jobs around the cottage as the night droned on, eager to busy himself. He cleared the rest of the kitchen clean and organized the clothing they'd brought into the small dresser in Christine's old bedroom. He then started clearing out more of the clutter in the dining room, eventually finding an old crate hidden underneath a moth eaten blanket and some soggy newspapers. The crate was breaking apart on the sides, probably at one point chewed on by rats. Erik glanced around the baseboards of the room, glad he hadn't seen hair or tail of a rat yet. He didn't know for sure but assumed the little creatures would startle Christine if she were to see one. Women didn't fancy vermin, from what he'd read in books.

Erik set the crate on the table, noticing the latch was locked. Careful, as to not awake Christine, he broke the rusty thing off with tug as he wedged a kitchen knife into its hilt. It fell broken to the tabletop with a loud metallic plink, and Erik turned towards the bedroom door, worried he'd disturbed Christine's slumber. The door stayed silent though, and after letting out a relieved sigh he turned back to the chest and opened it.

Inside the chest were various things that meant nothing to him, though he didn't toss away anything in fear that Christine might want it. Things from broken jewelry, to old books written in Swedish, to small toys that had once maybe belonged to her filled it. Shoving them aside he found a single photograph in a bronze frame, the glass of it cracked but the image inside still fully intact. He held it up into the light, stunned. We could've sworn he was looking at the grainy image of his wife, only it couldn't be because the picture was decades old from the look of its filtering.

The woman in the picture represented Christine in every way. She was small and thin, with flowing curls and bright, wide eyes. Her smile was alluring, sweet and simple. The dress she wore was fitted, and even though the image was in black and white Erik could tell it was a bright color from the hue it cast. He turned the photo over and carefully opened the frame, pulling out the film as to not scratch it on the jutting glass. On the back of the paper was small, scribbled handwriting.

 _\- Mareena Daae,_ _August 8th 1853 -_

Erik turned the photo back over. So _this_ was Christine's mother. He smiled a sad smile, forlorn knowing how similar the two would've been, saddened that they'd never gotten the chance to known one another. It was clear in Mareena's smile that she was every bit the star her daughter was. He set the photograph aside, making a mental note to find a new frame for it. Christine would want to keep it near the one she had of her father. It was a shame though, he thought, that there were no photographs of her parents together. Then again, they had probably thought they'd have years to do things like that. Erik would have to make sure that he and Christine had one done, that way one day their own children could see them as they were now, as young and in love newlyweds. Well, as young as one could be. Erik supposed he was a little past what was considered young these days. Christine, however, was the epitome of youth and beauty. That alone should be captured for future generations to see.

There was little else to be found in the chest besides scattered papers and worn notebooks. Most seemed stained by water, worn and illegible from weathering and time. He picked each of them up and set them aside in a small, damp pile. Beneath those ones there seemed to be a few salvageable documents. He went through each of them, sorting them into organized little stacks. They were mostly papers of the boring variety, some bank statements and others random journal entries that held no interest to him because they didn't tell full recollections. In fact, it wasn't until he found a brown leather notebook at the very bottom of the chest that his curiosity peaked. He opened it carefully, surprised at the way it had stayed persevered throughout the years. The ledger lines inside of it had faded to a dull gray, the pages a deep yellow with a distinct smell like sandalwood and sea salt. The penned in notes inside were just as smudged as some of the others had been, yet slightly readable, and Erik studied them with wonder.

It was clear to him that he had found one of Gustave's composition notebooks, something clearly no one expected to still exist. At least ten solo compositions, meant for the violin he now possessed, were here, right before his eyes. Grateful he could sight read almost without flaw, Erik quickly stood up and rushed to get Gustave's violin. He sat at the kitchen table and tuned it, looking down at the yellow papers, flipping through them to see if any one particular sound would strike his fancy. He smiled as they all seemed to catch his eye, giddy as any musician would be, thrilled at such a find.

Then he saw it. The final song in the notebook. It must've been written right after she was born. _Christine's Lullaby_ was written in bold, black ink at the top of the page, and as Erik's eyes drifted over the notes he could hear its brilliance in his head. He heard each note, each sound as if he were playing it aloud. It was beautiful, a perfect piece to sooth a crying child, soft and delicate like a flower on a spring morning. He quickly rosined up his bow and began to play it as softly as he could.

 _Christine_

Her body was fighting her as her mind began to stir awake, begging her to remain still. She felt heavy in her movements, her tongue thick, as if she'd been out cold for quite some time. And, had it not been for the ghostly lull of a violin, she was sure she wouldn't have awoken until late into the next morning. Yet perhaps she wasn't awake, and this was simply a dream. It had to be, for it was only in her dreams that she could hear her father play for her. Yet as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of her old seaside cottage she knew for sure that she was truly hearing her father's music, alive once more in the next room over.

She carefully stretched out her injured leg as she slid it slowly off the side of the bed, feeling the damaged muscle give a pull. She winced once and set it down on the cool boards of the floor, feeling the chill of the night creep up through her toes. When she stood up she found herself a bit disoriented, and had to grab hold of the dresser nearby to keep her balance. She wondered how much pain medicine Erik had given her. George had warned her it would be strong, but surely she shouldn't still be feeling its affects after being asleep for what she assumed had been hours.

The song in the other room continued on, and as it did Christine found herself frozen where she stood, lost in a memory. She was small, with tiny hands holding a large book as she sneakily read past her bedtime by the moonlight that slipped in through the crack in her bedroom door. Her father was tapping his foot against the floors softly in the living room, keeping time with himself as he played this very song with all his heart. The only difference between now and then was that the accompaniment of tapping was absent in present time, because Erik never tapped his foot. Yes, this was Erik playing the violin, not her father. Her father would never play again. But his music, it seemed, would.

She shyly advanced, pushing open the bedroom door just a tad, curious as a cat about to get caught stealing away a mouse. She didn't want him to know she was awake, didn't want this snippet of magic she was hearing to fall into deafening silence.

With his back to her Christine watched him play, focusing on the way his shoulders flowed with the movements of his bow. There was something about those movements that were so relaxed and carefree. It almost seemed sensual in truth, the way his muscles moved. His entire body seemed to be intertwining itself into the music. His head was down however, she noticed, which meant he wasn't playing one of his own compositions. His own music he knew he heart, and when he played something he'd written his eyes would remain closed and his face would tilt upwards. No, he appeared to be reading out of an old notebook, one that looked as though it had seen better days.

The music stopped all too soon, Erik apparently reaching the end of the page he was studying. The song didn't seem complete though, and he seemed just as frazzled as she was that it had ended all too soon. He flipped back and forth through the paper stack in front of him, resting the violin on his lap in frustration.

"I think I know how it ends," Christine whispered to herself as she heard bits and pieces of music begin to stir in her mind. Her voice hadn't been loud as she spoke and yet Erik immediately perked up, grabbing the violin by its neck and setting it gently on the table as he stood up and turned towards her. In the dim candlelight he seemed almost too tall in her very small kitchen, towering high like a looming omen. His mask was off, as she preferred it, yet she could understand all too well how the sight of someone like him could frighten a person in the dead of the night. What a shame that was, for she found him quite handsome this particular evening.

"I'm terribly sorry I awoke you with all my racket," he apologized wholeheartedly. He could obviously tell she felt unsteady, for he appeared at her side faster than she could process, holding her shoulders in a firm grasp. "Here, let me help you back to bed."

"No, it's fine. I'm up now. Besides, it was nice, hearing you play. Father used to play late into the night like that. I used to be able to sleep right through it. I think it was more of a pleasant jostling of memories that awoke me tonight though, hearing that particular song. It's been so long, and yet I knew it was his the moment you started playing it."

He walked her over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for her, helping her to sit. He then disappeared into the bedroom and a moment later she felt a blanket drape over her shoulders. She murmured her gratitude and pulled the blanket close to her chest, feeling cozy and warm by the remaining embers of a fire it seemed he'd started earlier in the night. Erik moved around the kitchen behind her, starting water for tea by the sound of things, while Christine reached forward and picked up the sheet music he had been playing off of.

She stared at the title, a distant but clear ache blooming within her heart. Her father's handwriting was a mess, so much like he had been. Whereas Erik was very organized and elegant with his derailed thoughts, her father hadn't known how to handle the genius inside his brain. She recalled how he used to scribble on scraps anywhere he could find them when a song came to him, desperate to get the notes down on paper before they evacuated his mind forever.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was humming the lullaby softly, closing her eyes and imagining things as they'd once been. It didn't take her long before she realized she truly did know the entire song, humming past where the sheet music ended and letting herself drift off on the wings of the melody. When she finally opened her eyes once more she found Erik sitting next to her, his hands folded underneath his chin while he looked at her with adoration.

"You _do_ know the entire song," he stated wistfully. "Might you be able to vocalize it slower, my dear, out loud? Together I think you and I may be able to pen it down. Maybe even finish some of the other damaged ones as well."

"I'm up to the task," Christine replied with a smile. "Provided you finish making that tea. I suspect we have a long, tiring night ahead of us."

"I don't think the music will take that long," Erik remarked as he stood up and carried on in the kitchen.

"True. Maybe an hour or two. But if we're still awake after that then I have something else in mind for us to do."

She delivered her words in a low voice, hooking his attention just the way she'd hoped she would. She watched as he nearly dropped the cups he'd been taking from the cabinet, obviously catching on to what she was insinuating. With an excited smile he then set the two glasses down on the table and produced a pen from a stack of clutter to the left of them. After a sip of tea he eagerly took the violin and tucked it under his chin, plucking a few pizzicato notes.

"From the beginning then?"

She nodded and together they worked on saving the reminisce of her father's work well into the early morning. Being the musicians they were, it was no surprise that they both got caught up in the task and completely forgot their evening marital plans. This wasn't a loss to either of them though, it seemed. They had made beautiful music together that night, and by the time they were done they had all but flopped into bed with exhaustion, Christine laughing to herself at how Erik had to turn sideways and bend his knees up to fit on the small bed comfortably.

They fell asleep that night to the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside, the gentle lapping an echo of times past savored and times yet to come. It was a contentment Christine never knew she could feel, snuggled beneath her husband's arm as he dozed quietly beside her. As she too fell into a deep slumber she felt her heart soar knowing that their honeymoon, that this heaven they'd found by the sea, was only the first of many good times to come.

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	47. A Gust of Wind

A Gust of Wind

1872

 _Christine_

The next day was pure bliss for Christine. That is, until it wasn't. It had started pleasant enough though. She had awoken to the sounds of the morning gulls and the splatter of sea foam striking the cottage's bedroom window. Outside the sky had been streaked in various shades of pink, colors so awe inspiring that it had left her breathless. What a beautiful way to have awoken, only made more surreal when she'd rolled over in bed to face her smiling husband who had, she guessed without doubt, been up at least half the night, being the insomniac he was.

They'd strolled down to the shore after breakfast and had sat upon the sand watching the waves, all the while discussing their plans for the near future. There was much excitement in store for them when they returned to Paris. The opera company would be putting on _Romeo et Juliette_ in just a little over a week and a half and after that run finished, Erik's opera would begin its rehearsals. Erik was bustling with ideas for it, and after a while had disappeared into the cabin to fetch his sketchbook to work on set designs that had suddenly come to him during their discussion.

When he'd disappeared up the hill Christine had merrily strolled along the shoreline and collected shells, so much enamored by the fragile ocean treasures, just as much as she had been as a child. By the time Erik had returned she'd had an armful of them. He'd laughed at her cluttered collection and together they'd brought them inside and carefully packed them away. She didn't know what she would do with them once they returned home, but each one had seemed much too special to simply leave behind.

It was when the afternoon grew unusually warm that Christine noticed something was off with the way Erik was behaving. He had always been a man uncomfortable in his own skin (an understatement really), but this had been something different altogether. She herself had long since changed into one of the lighter dresses he had brought for her, a pale yellow ensemble with lace half-sleeves that allowed her skin to breathe. Erik had blatantly refused to change into the thinner shirt she'd brought out for him though. The one he'd put on that morning had been thick and dark, no doubt boiling him alive, and yet he'd seemed reluctant to undress. Had she not already seen him naked before she would have thought it nerves, but after placing that notion aside she'd found she couldn't understand his apprehension.

It was only when he'd snapped at her under his breath and turned to move away from the conversation entirely that she'd grown agitated with him and had reached out for his arm, once more feeling the thick gauze that wrapped his forearm underneath his sleeve. He'd frozen stiff as a board as she'd held him there, and she'd thought at first his reaction spurned from pain in the wound - a wound that he'd told her was nothing, yet still kept covered. She'd instantly pulled her hand away, not wanting to cause him any discomfort, and grew worried over what sort of injury it was that it still wasn't getting any better.

"Let me have a look at this," she'd offered kindly as she'd rolled up his sleeve and fingered the edge of the gauze. "If this had truly been nothing, as you told me before, then there's no reason for it still to be wrapped like this. Cuts need to breathe to heal properly. If it is still open we might have to-"

"Christine, it's fine! Leave it be!"

He'd jerked his arm from her grasp with such great force that she'd stumbled forward, almost losing her footing. She hadn't released her grip on the wrap though, and his motion had unraveled it from his arm, thin spirals of white spooled to the floor between them.

That's when she'd seen it, the prison tattoo he'd so carefully been hiding from her. The abominable set of sixes that had clearly been branded into his skin as a cruel joke in regard to his appearance. She'd looked up at him with sympathy, though perhaps to him it had looked more like pity, and she knew all too well how he felt about pity. Such an awful anger had burned in his eyes as she'd held his gaze.

He'd lost his temper, accusing her of an invasion of privacy, calling her a respectless wife. She'd wanted to cry but hadn't, instead raising her voice to lecture him on how he should never hide things from her, that he needed to trust her not to judge him. They'd both stormed out of the room afterwards, opposite directions, her walking outside into the mocking sunshine and he locking himself away in the bedroom. It had been their first fight as a married couple. A memorable occasion she'd never longed to know.

She sat outside now on the cliffside, her legs swinging out over the fifteen foot drop, her ankles delighted by the warm breeze in the air that did little to thaw the ice she felt surrounding her heart. She knew it would have to be her to break their silence first. After all, Erik had hidden himself away from society for over ten years at one point in his life. So a mere few hours of isolation would be nothing in comparison. To her husband it probably felt like only minutes ago that they'd fought, yet to her it seemed like an eternity. She could picture him inside, sitting there like stone in her father's old bedroom, arms crossed, looking down at the floor in a lost, blank stare. Hunched over, sulking.

Although her heart cried out to him over the cruelty of his branding she couldn't bring herself to get over the fact that he had hidden it from her. They were man and wife, and were meant to share each and every part of their worlds with one another. He'd trusted her so much before, about everything! His past and face, as well as his long ago broken heart. And yet this mark had caused him to shrink back into himself, hide it behind bandages as he hid his face in masks. She wouldn't have been shamed or bothered by it, had he come straight out and shown it to her from the start. In fact, she would have kissed each cruel blotch of ink slowly and carefully, reminding him that he was not what the world made him out to be, but the bravest man she'd ever known. That she loved him and would always love him, no matter what.

A part of her still wanted to show him that compassion. Wanted to run into the house and demand he open their door, demand that they cease this maddening silence and make up. She imagined them apologizing to one another, their angry shouts from earlier melting away to apologetic kisses and touches that led to so much more, to a passionate and eager understanding. But she didn't move a muscle from where she sat. Something kept her rooted on that ledge, hair whipping around her tear-stained face as she finally allowed her feelings to release themselves.

Time passed, and the sun began its slow descent. The ocean sky grew passionate in a fiery tangle of red and orange, the colors of love all but smirking at her as she twisted her wedding ring on her finger with anxiety over what to say when she reentered the cottage, for the evening air had once more shifted cool, and the rocky water below her was growing grey and angry, no longer comforting in the least.

She propped herself up and turned to stand, wiping away the last of her tears before dusting the sand from her skirt. She then took a deep breath and held her head up high, determined to at least appear strong. When she did though she felt her knees weaken and staggered back a bit in surprise.

"How long have you been standing there?"

Erik was only meters away, looking at her with sorrowful, downcast eyes. He was wearing his floor-length coat and his hands were tucked deep into its pockets. It would have seemed a casual stance if his entire face didn't look haggard, as if he too had cried. Perhaps he had.

"A while," he admitted in a low voice. "Although I didn't want to say anything and startle you, since you decided to perch yourself so dangerously on the side of a cliff." He seemed distracted, as he turned to face the sea. "Honestly Christine, what if you had fallen down into the water while I was still inside? How far does that ledge drop? The sea could've carried you away! I never would've known what had become of my wife. You would have simply just disappeared on me." He paused, shifting his footing and staring down at the ground, almost embarrassed by even the slightest rise of volume in his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't come out here to lecture you. I simply meant to apologize, but your dangerous inclination distracted me so. You must know that I worry constantly for your safety, Christine. Far too much has happened for me not to."

Far too much had indeed happened, and yet look where they were now. So far away from one another, over such a foolish fight, when she had sworn to herself only days ago to stand by his side always, as his understanding and devoted wife, for better or worse. She closed the space between them, taking purposeful steps, and raised her hands to gently hold the sides of his arms.

"I accept your apology, but you need to trust me from now on, with everything," she told him firmly, holding his gaze. "I am your wife. This life is ours to share."

"You're right, of course...as always." He chuckled, looking down at her, then brought his hand up to the side of her face, trailing it down the side of her cheek and into her windblown hair. She shivered, though if it was born of his touch or the breeze she didn't know. "I should never take such an amazing woman such as yourself for granted. I know your kind heart and I should have trusted it. It was foolish pride is all." He kissed her gently, then pulled back. "Oh, I nearly forgot. I have something for you. Maybe it will help to make up for my blindness. I discovered it in your father's room. It was folded and tucked away carefully in the dresser, so I figured it had to be sentimental, either belonging to you or your mother."

Christine watched as Erik brought forth a silky red fabric from his jacket pocket, the long, smooth strand delicate in shape between his long fingers. He brought it up over her shoulders and draped it there, where she felt the soft tingle of it brushing her collarbone. Her mother's scarf...when had she last seen it? She brought both of her hands up to touch the ends of it, hesitating as tears formed in her eyes, for she knew exactly when she'd last seen it. It had been a cold winter's day, many years ago.

She'd been so small, and the day so frigid. She'd had her scarf wrapped up over her head, covering her ears from the chill. They'd been playing, the two of them, running through the sand when a sudden gust of wind had blown by with a mighty and powerful strength. Her scarf had come loose from her neck, stealing away into the breeze and floating down into the shallow water. She'd immediately run after it, tears falling down her face as she watched the undertow take it farther and farther out into the water. As the hem of her dress had dipped into the freezing sea a hand had come down on her shoulder in a hard clasp.

"Lotte, stop! You can't go into that water, you'll freeze!"

Raoul's eyes had been frantic as he'd stared down at her hard, scared for her safety just as wholly as Erik was now. His boyish face had been torn though as he'd taken in her look of desperation, her plea that they must do _something_. It was then that Raoul had groaned, sliding off his slightly too large beige overcoat. It had hit the sand the same instant he had determinedly entered the water, not once looking back as he swam out into that icy deep.

She had smiled so triumphantly as he'd held up her scarf over his head with pride, the ocean water up to his chest. She'd thought him a hero, and had jumped up and down with excitement over their shared victory. Then a wave had so suddenly appeared, crashing down over his head, the foam spraying up into the sky. She hadn't seen him come back up and had cried out his name only twice before turning to run up the hill towards her home as fast as her little feet could carry her. She must've looked a mess, screaming to her father that Raoul was drowning and that he had to save him. He'd dropped the teacup he'd been holding, the porcelain smashing into pieces on their kitchen floor as he'd raced past her, straight down towards the beach.

To Christine's greatest relief, when they'd reached the shoreline Raoul had been standing at the edge of the water, smiling, her mother's scarf wrapped around his neck and his entire body rattling with chills as his wet clothes hung loosely to his boyish frame. Her father had rushed him inside and had given him some of his clothes to change into while he'd started a fire.

Christine remembered everything about that day. She remembered Raoul walking out of her father's bedroom, a nightshirt far too big on him falling down to his knees. She remembered her father sweeping up the sharp pieces of his broken teacup as Raoul took her soaking scarf and hung it by the fireplace to dry before sitting beside her. She remembered hugging him tightly, so glad that he was safe and whole, and then poking him roughly in the ribs, lecturing him about having been so foolish.

"Christine, I had to," he'd explained to her simply, putting his arm over her shoulder. "I couldn't stand to see my dearest friend so upset."

Christine blinked, struggling against the tears caused by such a sweet memory. She didn't say a word as Erik pulled her in tightly against his chest and held her there. She knew he didn't have a clue as to what was upsetting her, but all the same she was grateful for his comfort. So grateful to have him close. They stayed like that a while, the two of them by the cliffside in that embrace, not saying a word. Finally night descended around them and Erik gently turned and walked her back towards the house, his hand pressed lightly on the small of her back. It had grown ever colder as the sun vanished, and without even thinking about it Christine brought her scarf up over her head, covering her ears.

As they laid down that night to sleep she had finally gotten enough control over herself to recount what had upset her so much aloud to her husband. As her story dragged on they found themselves sitting up, Christine leaning into his side, their hands held intertwined in her lap. The small bedside candle flickered as he nodded along, ever the most wonderful of listeners.

She wasn't sure when she'd fallen asleep. She remembered lying down on her side, Erik rubbing the space between her shoulder blades, then she'd simply slipped away into a dream. A dream that, to no surprise, replayed that same seaside memory once more, clear as day. Only this time, in her dreams, she was not a sad woman lost in recollection. She was that happy smiling girl again, tagging Raoul as they ran around and then laughing later on as he appeared in the doorway of her kitchen, wearing her father's hideously oversized shirt with that lopsided grin of his.

Something was different about this memory though. As they moved to the fireplace neither of them sat down this time. Instead they stayed standing, facing one another. And had there always been this many books in their kitchen? She tried to to focus, to keep the memory intact. Far away though she swore she heard the sounds of glass breaking.

She ignored it, hugging Raoul tightly, glad he was safe in her small arms where she could hold him close. He still smelled of the sea, and his arms were cool to the touch where the water had chilled him to the bone. She remembered then that she was furious at him and leaned back, poking him in the ribs, lecturing him about how he could've been the one to freeze to death.

"Christine, I had to."

Christine furrowed her brow, confusion setting in as he spoke. Raoul's voice was much too deep. They were both so little and yet he seemed to speak with the voice of a grown man. She heard a sound like a gunshot close by and jumped, frightened.

"I had to! I had to free you from this... _this monster_!"

Where had that voice come from? It sounded as though it were all around her and oh so torn in distress. Were there monsters here? Should they be scared? She spun around to see who had spoken, only to face a large, broken window. A snowstorm raged angrily outside.

"Raoul, what's happening?" she cried, spinning back around.

As she turned a second gunshot rang out and she closed her eyes and screamed, covering her ears as she fell to her knees. What was this! She was shaking, her breathing hard and her palms sweating. She slowly dared herself to open her eyes, all the while fearful of what she would see when she did.

The room around her had grown deathly silent in that moment, the only noise once more the crackling of the fireplace nearby. Only now there was a large dark shape lying across her kitchen floor, shadows dancing around it from the light of the flames. She advanced towards it, eyes wide as she realized it to be the eerily still form of a man. Was it her father? The man was far too still, even as a child she could tell that. Yes, something was wrong, very wrong indeed. She reached her small hand forward, grabbing the man's shoulder and turning him over. The man no more than a corpse, he flopped over with a thud, offering no resistance as he would've in life. A large gunshot wound had ripped through his chest and wide, unseeing golden eyes stared up at the ceiling.

"Erik?"

Her voice was barely a whisper as she fell backwards, landing on the floor in shock. She tried to look away from the sight of Erik's lifeless form on the floor but found she couldn't bare to. Oh, this was all so wrong! Erik hadn't been around back then! She looked down at herself, realizing she was no longer a child but her true age once more. What was this Hell? Things were so simple back when she was a child. Why did it all change? Why did she have to grow up? Why must everyone she's ever loved have to die?

" _I had to_."

She heard it once more, that dark and sinister mantra. Only now she recognized the voice. She turned and stood up, facing Raoul. He was covered in a splatter of blood, a still smoking gun raised in his hand. No longer a child, he stood menacingly tall. They both did. They weren't children anymore. She couldn't pretend they were.

"We can be together now, Lotte," Raoul smiled, seemingly pulling her scarf from nowhere. He dropped the gun and walked towards her, a twisted amorous glow in his eyes, his cheeks dotted with blood. "Just like we were always meant to be."

There was a disturbingly audible _squish_ as Raoul closed the space between them, and Christine watched with terror as his eyes widened and a trickle of blood spilled over his bottom lip. She looked down, seeing in her hand the hilt of a knife, one she had just plunged into his stomach. He dropped her scarf to the floor and cried out in pain as he pulled the weapon out, holding it up into the firelight as she staggered backwards.

"Christine...what have you done?"

Christine turned around, coming face to face with her father. He looked horrified as he pushed her aside. She fell to the floor so easily under his hand, a child once more. The bloody knife in her hand now seemed huge, the complete size of her girlish arm. She dropped it, screaming as her father cradled a once more youthful Raoul in his arms. Her father's nightshirt was stained red as it clung awkwardly around the wound on his small stomach.

"You killed him..." Her father's voice was quiet and full of anguish as he held Raoul close. Her father had always loved Raoul so much. After a moment he turned on her, his eyes glowing red. "You killed him! You killed the boy, killed your good friend!"

"No, father, I didn't! I swear. This was an accident! It must have been! Oh God no, I didn't mean to...I would never..." She looked down once more at the bloody knife, which had fallen atop a pile of broken porcelain and bits of frosted glass, and began to sob violently. Then she shoved past her angry father and fell to her knees in front of Raoul's body. "I didn't mean to...I didn't! I swear! Raoul please, you must forgive me! Forgive your Lotte! I never meant to hurt you, not like this...please. You have to wake up. Please Raoul...you have to wake up!"

Christine felt as though she were drowning as a darkness suddenly began encompassing her. It was suffocating, a blackness that filled her lungs. Maybe this was death. Did she deserve death? She'd killed her best friend. The guilt she tried so hard to bury every day, would it ever go away? She couldn't breathe as she felt her arms reach out for something, anything to hold onto to. She heard someone cry out. It sounded like Erik. But no, it couldn't be Erik. Erik was dead, he'd been shot. The blackness grew tighter. She screamed, kicking her legs, trying to free herself.

"Christine, dammit! Stop this!"

The command was so firm, so loud and clear. She felt herself grow limp. She opened her eyes, adjusting to the dim light of her father's bedroom. She was sweating profusely, with Erik leaning over her, his eyes wide with fear and concern. There was a knick above his left eye, with a thin trail of blood glistening beneath it. She reached up and touched the small cut, horrified.

"I hurt you," she whispered, mortified with herself. "Oh, Erik I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to!"

"Nevermind me!" Erik snapped. The tone in his voice made her flinch, and he must have noticed that because his next words were spoken ever so softly as he brushed her hair away from her face. "I'm alright, Christine. Really, I am." He scanned her face, looking hopeless. "Are you?"

Christine didn't know what to say. She couldn't remember most of her nightmare, only bits and pieces of it. She reached forward and touched Erik's chest, reassuring herself that he was whole and alive, that he hadn't actually been shot on that cursed night. She must have seemed dazed, for she felt his fingers tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his heartbroken eyes.

"Christine?"

His voice was so gentle. This was the voice of her angel. She couldn't lie to her angel.

"No, I don't think I am...I don't know if I'll ever be."

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* * *

 **Please don't forget to leave a review! I'd love some feedback on this chapter.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	48. Closure and Freedom

Closure and Freedom

1871

 _Erik_

It was following the final showing of _Romeo et Juliette_ that the head seamstress of the Opera Populaire made her wishes for retirement known to the masses. Such news troubled Erik, for he was hoping the old woman had planned to stay around many years more, crafting her masterpieces for his productions. It had been she who had sewn the Elissa gown for Christine during Hannibal after all, and she that he had planned to work with for creating the intricate and complicated designs for the Don Juan costumes that he'd sketched. The illustrations he'd drawn of Aminta's gowns alone called for highly detailed lace and embroidery on the hems of her skirt, designs he wasn't sure the woman who would step up to fill her role could produce.

He wondered if perhaps he should put out an ad in the paper to fill the position. Surely someone out there needed the work and was skilled enough to do it to his levels of satisfaction? Preferably someone not in their fifties who would only work a few years and then retire again. He would rather fire someone young who could stay within the company for many years, someone he could count on.

It was then he realized that perhaps he already knew of such a person. He felt baffled with himself for not having already sought her out, knowing what her current predicament must be like after her father had faced his untimely demise.

Erik sighed. Thinking of Thomas Comtois again gave him an ache in the pit of his heart that he couldn't seem to shake. As he leaned against the wall of the lobby he remembered watching as he'd held his chin up high and the sorrowful had priest blessed him. Yes, he owed his courageous friend this opportunity for his daughter. He only hoped she would be as good as he had proclaimed. They needed top seamstresses, not students. Thomas hadn't seemed like a liar though. The affliction in his voice had held such a pride as he'd spoken of the hours on end his dear Yvette put into her stitching.

The man had worked as a teller, and from the prison location Erik assumed his employment had been the large bank near the Seine shopping plaza. He decided to venture out there tomorrow, as the cast was getting the day off to mark the end of the season.

"Darling, are you ready to head home?"

Christine's voice was light and jovial, cheerful as a spring day as she rounded the corner with Meg on her hip. The two had been inseparable as of late, Christine seeking her dear friend out after each and every show to help her change before they headed to their separate homes for the night.

"Ready whenever you are, my love."

Christine said a brief farewell to her friend before crossing to his side and taking hold of his arm. He looked down at her with a smile, glad to be of assistance to her. Though she didn't say anything he knew when her leg bothered her and would gladly serve as her modest crutch whenever the need arose. As she leaned against his side however he caught sight of the way the maroon fabric of her evening gown clung to her in oh so immodest places, and found he had to look away again to avoid staring. Nevertheless the distraction, he was prideful to call such a beautiful woman and soul his own, and as they exited the building he found he couldn't keep his prideful smile off his face.

Erik drove them home, Christine riding up in front beside him in their new but modest carriage, not one to be chauffeured around. Caesar and Leroux immediately jumped forward as he prompted them to, happy to begin the journey home after having been cooped up for the last three hours of the show. As they bumped down the rode, Christine's hand wound its way around his waist to steady herself, sending a thrill through him, as such gestures always did.

Erik stayed downstairs while Breanne helped Christine ready herself for bed that night. Though Erik was more than happy to assist in such tasks, he knew Breanne and Christine had come to enjoy their nightly routines since they'd returned from their honeymoon and after all, it was only proper for a lady's maid to be allowed her duties. Duties which, Erik had to admit, the young woman did an exceptional job at. In the two months since they'd returned home Breanne had always been up even before he, prepping meals or cleaning the house, and as soon as he would leave for the opera house he would see her helping Christine with her stretches just as patiently as a mother would. He had already raised her salary once and expected he would be doing so again quite soon.

Christine was walking much better now which Breanne's constant therapy sessions. She no longer faltered on the stairs or tripped on uneven ground, which made his heart soar with joy, especially now that preparations for Don Juan were set in motion. The dancing for Aminta's role would be taxing, the main lady a dancer by profession, and Christine would need to be in perfect health before they even attempted training her for the ballet numbers she would have to perform. He would have to make sure that when she did start rehearsals she doesn't push herself too hard. She was a headstrong and stubborn woman, and he didn't want her injuring herself because of those qualities. If he saw her struggling when she returned to the show he would have talk to Adelaide about an edit in choreography.

Erik made his way up the stairs and pushed open their bedroom door lightly, stepping inside with a smile. Christine was laying in bed, a book in her hand as she waited for him. She grinned as he entered the room, setting the book down on her nightstand. As he moved about to get ready for bed he told her of his plans to go out into the city tomorrow and meet their possible new seamstress.

"Someone has already inquired about the position?" she asked in astonishment. "But it hasn't even been a full day! Goodness. News travels in this city faster than a hawk can fly!"

"Well not quite, no. I never even published the ad actually. I simply already had someone in mind," he explained, joining her in their bed. "The daughter of a teller I once knew. He once told me she had remarkable skill with a needle and I figured this would be a good opportunity for her. That is, if I can find her place of residence."

"She's not with her father then?" Christine asked with concern.

Erik took the time to explain the story of Thomas Comtois and the exact conditions in which he and the teller, God rest his soul, had met, knowing that Christine had been right about his need to tell her the truth in everything he said. She listened intently, nodding in understand and compassion at his story.

"That poor man!" she lamented. "And his daughter, so young! I know all too well what she must be feeling. To lose one's father is a great hardship. Would you like me to come with you? Do you think that would help?"

"That isn't necessary, Christine. I'll probably be out all morning simply trying to figure out the address. I'd hate to drag you all over town on such an endeavor, especially that early. No, you should rest. After all, I was hoping tomorrow night you and I could work on some of the songs for Don Juan." He winked at her. "I've been missing our private lessons, you know."

Christine kissed him with a happy smile. "Oh, you'd know I'd love that! I adore singing with you, darling." Her face suddenly fell. "Only we can't tomorrow night. We offered to watch the girls, remember? The Larsons haven't had a single night to themselves since little Margaret was born. I'd hate to break our promise to them. They've seemed so tired lately."

"That's right, the girls! I'd nearly forgotten. Don't worry. I'll make sure I'm home by nightfall to help out."

* * *

The Bank of Paris was a large and menacing building, with towering grey columns on either side of the doors and guards posted at all entrances. Inside it bustled with people, some depositing money while others collected, everyone in the city from first class aristocrats to ragged street merchants seeking a loan and a final chance as they clucked about the lobby.

Erik approached the secretary desk, where a young man with tousled blonde hair was furiously taking notes of some sort.

Erik cleared his throat. "Excuse me, might you have any information on a teller who used to work here? I'm looking for the next of kin for a monsieur Thomas Comtois."

The young man's hand froze as he dropped his pen to the desk with an exasperated sigh. He never once looked up as he turned to ruffle through a large stack of papers in his first drawer. After a moment he scribbled down an address on the corner of his notepad and tore it off, flinging it onto the desk as he quickly returned to his notes.

"Rue Latter, seven blocks South of here," the young man stated with agitation. "No go on, I'm busy."

Erik picked up the small scrap with surprise at the ease of its obtainment, folding it up and sticking it into his pocket. "Thank you."

"Yes yes, go along then. Away with you."

 _Impish child._

The streets of Paris were busy today, men and women alike going about their errands and work. It also seemed though that some were out and about solely to converse and be social, gallivanting about for no reason whatsoever other than to enjoy the sunrise and the warm weather it brought.

Rue Latter was a quaint enough row of townhomes. Children played in the streets below while women cried out for them to be careful, laundry was being hung off wires to dry, and carriages rolled by at leisure. It was almost enjoyable, the simplicity of the lives surrounding him. There was a certain appeal to it all.

Erik unfolded the small scrap of parchment from his coat pocket and verified the housing number in front of him. The home looked uninhabitable. There were no sounds of laughter coming from behind its door, nor were any of its windows open to let in the lovely day. He rapped on the doorknocker three times and stepped back, peering into the side window for any signs of movement.

After a minute had passed he simply gave up, turning to leave the stoop, when he heard the creaking of the door as it opened. He turned to see only a few centimeters or so of visible frame parting.

"Yvette Comtois?" he inquired.

The door slammed shut in response, a thin trail of dust shooting out from the cracks in the wood. Erik groaned and knocked on the door again, this time using his fist in impatience.

"Yvette, I'm a friend of your father's! Please! A moment's time is all I ask of you!"

Erik felt his face fall as the door before him stayed silent and unmoving. He let his hand drop to his side and wondered if maybe this entire outing had been for nothing. If mademoiselle Comtois wouldn't hear him out then perhaps she was a lost cause. He hated to think that way though. Hated the idea that her father had perhaps died for nothing and that she had become a depressed hermit of a thing as he himself had once been.

Suddenly the door opened wide and there she was, standing before him in full, much to his surprise. She was thin as a rail, the dark grey gown she wore loose around her upper arms. She didn't smile, but had a flat face that studied him with a scrutinizing stare. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, stretching her face, and after a moment she finally stepped to the side.

"Please come in,monsieur…?"

"Destler. Erik Destler, mademoiselle."

Yvette blinked twice. "I've never heard your name before. Destler you say? Father never mentioned you, I'm quite sure of that."

Yvette seemed to be talking more to herself than to him as she moved towards the sitting room, which was in desperate need of dusting. She took a seat formally, and Erik awkwardly took the farthest seat from her, knowing she was just as unnerved by his presence as he was becoming with hers. When she didn't make a motion to speak further, Erik cleared his throat and shifted in his seat so he could begin.

"Mademoiselle Comtois, my visit today is purely business so if I may, I'd like to get straight to the point. I help to run the Opera Populaire - surely you've heard of it - and I seem to be finding myself in need of a new seamstress. Your father Thomas said you had talent in that area?"

Yvette narrowed her eyes into slits as she leaned forward in her chair. She folded her hands in her lap and twiddled with her fingers. "Destler...Destler. No, I'm quite sure of it now. Father never once mentioned you. How was it you said you knew him?"

Erik sighed. "It's complicated, mademoiselle. You see, I didn't know your father long. I only met him shortly before-"

"Before he died?" she guessed. When he said nothing in response she let out a sickeningly flat laugh. "Of course that's how you would've met him. Not as the man he was but as the man they'd distorted him into. How did he look, if I may ask, before he went? Was he well in health or had the sickness of that place already overcome him? I've heard it's filthy, riddled with disease from the rats that run rampant there."

"He was well, it seemed," Erik said, picturing him clearly in his mind's eye. "Well and so very brave. He walked to his sentence with his head held high. No one there could crush that strong spirit of his, and in his final moments he seemed to have found peace within himself." He met her eyes from across the room. "His last and final wish was for you to also find that peace, my dear. That sense of closure and freedom."

Erik saw Yvette's eyes tear up as she stood up and abruptly disappeared into the kitchen. Erik wasn't sure if he was to follow her and offer comfort or to simply stay put. A downfall of not having been raised learning social norms and protocols. Maybe Christine should have accompanied him after all. By now she would have had the young woman wrapped around her little finger, hypnotized by the effect of her calming nature and many charms.

Yvette returned five minutes later, a large bundle folded up under her arms. Her eyes were swollen and red from the tears she had obviously been trying to conceal. She reminded him of the wounded little girl Christine had once been after losing her own father. It pained him to see that mirrored similarly.

Erik gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though with his mask maybe it was a bit off-putting. Nevertheless she reached forward and handed him the bundle without so much as a single word, then returned to her seat in that same forlorn silence.

The bundle was thick and heavy. Erik had to stand up to unfold it. When he did he smiled a smile of wonder. The bundle was a quilt, hand-sewn together from beige fabric that was soft to the touch. The outer edges of it were decorated with intricate green designs of ivy, and the middle had a variety of red flowers embroidered on it, everything from dark, blood roses to faint blossoms of cherry. He studied the various patterns, impressed by the dedication to detail that the young girl had put into her art.

"Father always said that I had a gift," Yvette lamented softly. "That I would do great things." She shifted in her seat, looking down to hide her sorrowful look. "And although he did free me from that monster of a man I still feel haunted. These walls here..." She looked around. "They were once filled with such wonderful family memories, yet now all they seem to do it mock me. All I seem to do day in and day out is fret about the house and that's not what papa would've wanted for me. No, all staying here would do is insult the sacrifice he made for me. So if you are serious about your offer monsieur then please, take me back with you to your place of work. I can pack my things in a mere matter of minutes. It won't take long."

Erik looked up from her quilt and nodded his head. "He wasn't wrong. You are incredibly gifted. Please, pack your things. I shall wait here for you. If you find you have any further questions before you finalize this decision please, feel free to ask them."

Yvette smiled, and it was a beautiful smile. No longer a sullen mourner, she seemed to have a glimmer of hope radiating from inside of her. "Actually, I think I've more than made up my mind, monsieur. And I thank you for this opportunity. It is most kind of you."

* * *

 _Christine_

The headstone in front of Christine was shining in the sunlight, the brand new marble untouched by weathering, the grass in front of it still spotted with patches of dirt from where the earth had been overturned only mere months ago. There were no flowers to be found on this grave, nor any tokens of fond remembrance. Merely stillness and nothing more.

Christine still wasn't sure what force had brought her to the cemetery. She needed closure, she knew that, but was still so unsure about how she would obtain it. She had visited her father's plot on the other side of the garden only moments ago, but had found neither hair of courage nor comforting wisdom in his presence. Now she stood askew, unsure of the words she needed to say, half turned and ready to run, undoubtedly confused by the brokenness in her heart. Her nightmares had been less frequent but still occurred from time to time, still tormented her. She knew if she did not resolve her issues then they would eventually fester into an illness of the mind.

A gentle breeze blew by, ruffling the red scarf tied loosely around her neck. Erik had brought it back with them from the cottage after their honeymoon and had carefully stowed it away in the back of his wardrobe so that she wouldn't have to see it, knowing it had triggered that very first horrible nightmare. It was a sweet gesture on his part, she realized, that he had not disposed of it completely. For even though he knew it brought her pain, he also knew that long ago the silk strip of fabric had brought her comfort and that maybe somewhere between the threads that feeling could still be found.

"Christine...? Christine Daae?"

Christine jumped in surprise, hearing a deep voice from behind. She turned around to see a man in his late forties hobbling through the grounds towards her. He was tall and finely dressed, his graying blonde hair swept back and his face freshly shaven. As he walked he brought forth a rag and coughed into it, turning from her until it was under control as he neared.

"Philippe? I'm surprised to see you. I didn't know you still lived in Paris."

 _Or that you were even alive_ , she thought, surprised to see him upright. Philippe had been such a sickly teenager when she was a child, barely ever bothering to stand and never once seen outside the walls of his home. She had been positive that in the years gone by he must've passed on.

" _You're_ surprised to see _me_? Christine, I'm surprised to see you! What the devil are you doing here? Where is your husband?"

"I don't need an escort, Vicomte. I'm a grown woman. I was simply..." She paused, unsure of herself. "What I mean to say is I came here to-"

"Give your condolences? I find that notion very strange indeed, Christine. I would think you of all people would stay as far away from this grave as you possibly could. I know if my parents were still around mother would beat you for coming here, considering everything."

Christine felt her eyes begin to sting with tears as Philippe walked past her and laid a hand of his brother's grave, letting out a long sigh.

"Philippe, I'm so sorry. I meant no disrespect. Please, do forgive me. I-I'll take my leave if that's what you want."

Christine began to move away when she felt Philippe's hand fall gently upon her shoulder. When she turned around his face was kind.

"Christine, please...you must know that I don't blame you for what happened. My brother was out of control." He sighed. "If anything, you freed him."

"Philippe, _I killed him._ " she whispered harshly. She nearly choked on the words even as she said them. They were still so real when said aloud. "I didn't free him, I ended his life!"

"And how many people did he kill, Christine? Hmm? Lord knows there isn't an exact number! He'd lost himself! Lost everything about his person that was good and kind. He was nothing more than a man undone in the end! He was a devious snake, in too deep with deplorable men and also quite the drunkard, if rumors stand true."

Christine shook her head in defeat. "I still can't comprehend...oh, my poor Raoul. What happened to him, Philippe? What changed? Where went the little boy that I knew and cared so fondly for?"

Philippe reached into his coat and produced a cigarette and matchbox, striking one up. Christine wondered offhand if the cigarettes helped or harmed the state of his breathing condition. From the way he coughed when he inhaled on the end of it she assumed it was for the worse yet he simply no longer cared.

"I think I had a part to play in that, truthfully," he said, taking a long drag. "You know me, I was always weak, always sick. But he wasn't, and so I pushed him hard when he was still much too young to take on the responsibilities I should have been shouldering. I pushed him to make deals and sign trades he didn't even understand. Anything to keep the Changy family line wealthy and notable like what was expected of us. But when he couldn't keep up with the image of the potential that I'd created for him I think he began to stray to keep up. To impress me. I blame myself for how he turned out, to be honest. I was a dreadful brother to him. More of a tyrant than family member."

"You were only doing what you thought was right at the time," Christine told him. "You couldn't have guessed the consequences."

"No, but I should have."

Christine unwrapped the scarf from her neck slowly, reaching down to wrap it around the marble as her feet. She tied the silk tightly and touched the engraved name with her fingertips. No tears fell, although they did threaten to. She could feel them heavy on her lashes.

"I just hope he's at peace now, Philippe. I really do. I pray that he's found rest. He was my fondest friend as a child and I'll always hold on to those early memories of ours dearly. No matter how things ended, I hope he knows that I forgive him and...and I can only hope he forgives me as well."

Philippe finished off his cigarette and flicked it to the ground in front of his brother's headstone. "You don't knee that little bastard's forgiveness, Christine. What you need is your own. You didn't deserve what he put you through, and you need to stop blaming yourself for what _his_ choices resulted in. Remember that, will you?"

He didn't wait for an answer. With those last words Philippe turned heel and walked away, disappearing from sight at the tree line. Christine didn't try to stop him. She knew he had said his bit and was done conversing the matter. Instead she focused on stepping out the last of the glow of his cigarette. When it was no longer a hazard she glanced up at the the headstone before her one last time, noticing the date of birth that was engraved there in the marble. She blinked in surprise. How could she have forgotten? No wonder she had run into his brother today.

"Happy birthday, Raoul," she whispered to the surrounding air.

With those words she too figured she had said all that she could. She opened the gate to the cemetery and paused, feeling as though a heavy burden had finally been lifted off her shoulders. She thought about Philippe's words her entire walk home, letting herself see the truth in them.

That evening, hours later, as she stood in the doorway of her bedroom watching the Larson girls asleep in her bed, all she could do was smile at the sweetness that was life, at last freed from the horrors that danced in the lurking shadows. And as Erik rocked the girls' newest sister gently in the moonlight of their window, she finally felt a wave of peace wash over her.

She only wondered if it would last.

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* * *

 **How did we like that we got closure for Yvette? Did anyone remember her from earlier in the story? I felt like even though she was just a sub-character of a sub-character that her story needed to be stitched up (pun intended). And how about Christine finally coming to terms with Raoul's death? What an emotional ride.**

 **xoxo,**

 **Nicole**


	49. Don Juan Triumphant

Don Juan Triumphant

 _Christine_

1872

"Christine...are you alright?"

Christine looked up from her dressing room mirror to see Meg's concerned face reflected in the glass. Her sister's brows were furrowed and her lips were pursed in a thin line. She could tell from her expression alone that she knew she wasn't, the inquisition being merely a kind gesture of formality. Still, Christine tried to play it off, attempting to flash her most convincing smile. The smile didn't do much to improve her overall appearance however. She looked a mess. Her Act I ensemble was disheveled from the intensity of her solo dance in the last act, the white sleeves of her blouse falling down off her shoulders and her hair damp with sweat. Her cheeks were also far too red in color, flushed from her stomach overturning only moments ago.

"I'm fine, truly. Just a tad nauseous," she replied. "Too much spinning around is all."

"Nonsense!" Meg proclaimed. "Dancing has never made you ill before. Sister, are you ill? I know that it's opening night, but if you're too sick to be out there then just tell Erik-"

"No!" Christine interjected, maybe a little too quickly. She picked up her sleeves and straightened her back. "I told you, I'm fine. I just needed a minute to breathe. I'll be out again in a moment."

"If you say so..." Meg didn't sound convinced but took her at her word, disappearing with a twist of blonde out the doorway.

As soon as she was out of sight Christine sighed heavily and slumped forward in her chair, bent over in defeat. Honestly, she wasn't sure how she had even made it this far into the show. She swore her leg would've given out by now. It was throbbing dreadfully from her knee all the way up to her hip. She'd smiled all through her tavern dance though, lifting it high in the air in a perfect pointe for the grand finish. The motion itself had made her want to scream but instead she'd laughed as the curtain fell, embraced by the ballet backstage for a wonderful performance. Then again though, she'd always been a good actress.

The intensity of the pain was even more immense since she'd sat down and stopped moving. She kneaded her fingers over her thigh, trying to soothe it. Knowing her pain medication was in her bag by the door, she glanced over in its direction longingly. She had depended highly on it throughout the last couple of months of rehearsals, taking more than she probably should have been. She had quit cold though when she'd begun growing sick to her stomach just a few weeks ago. The withdrawal had been harsh, but it had been Dr. Larson's suggestion due to her newfound condition, and she'd taken him at his word for all advice regarding the matter.

She placed one tiny hand on the base of her corset, holding her abdomen tenderly, cursing her illness yet feeling a merry sense of glee all the same time. It had only taken her a week or two to realize that something had begun to change within her body, and as soon as she had she'd all but raced to Dr. Larson to confirm her suspicions. When the good doctor had told her the joyful news she'd tossed her arms around his neck, happy tears falling from her cheeks all over his suit. He'd held her in return all the same, congratulating her on her soon to be family.

She'd made him swear to secrecy however. As his closest friend she knew the first thing he would have done is reach out to Erik. But Erik had been so stressed over the upcoming premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant_ , so intent on making sure it was perfect, that she hadn't wanted to distract him from his work, not a work that he had spent years crafting. She would tell him after tonight, she'd decided long ago. After the show and the after the gala party, back in the peace and quiet of their home.

"He'll be so excited, little one," she whispered with a tiny smile.

She jumped up out of her chair, stretching her leg out with a wince as her nausea once more passed. As she made her way backstage she could see Erik looming at the edge of the curtain, squeezing the panel of it tightly, his eyes affixed on Garon as he sang a sorrowful lament. Her husband didn't even appear to be breathing, simply a statue observing. She smiled at his dedication to his art, walking up behind him and placing a comforting hand on his arm. He jumped at the sensation, jolted out of his focus, yet smiled tenderly as he looked down and saw her.

He brought his free hand up and placed it over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze before turning his focus back to the show. She laughed and walked off, leaving him to his own as she moved to the seamstresses, who quickly removed her over-skirt and tied a darker one in its place. A cover was draped over her shoulders and she gripped it tight, turning to wait for her next cue.

It was towards the middle of the second act that disaster struck. Such was their luck, Christine supposed. Nothing could ever go smoothly in their complicated lives. She'd known it would only be a matter of time, and that time was now. Right before the finale Garon was walking backstage and practically went soaring over a prop that had been left lying about. The tenor yelled out a shrill cry as Christine ran to his side and dropped to her knees beside him.

"Garon! Are you alright?"

The man, wincing the entire time, pried off his boot and examined his very swollen ankle. The angle it rested at looked highly unnatural to Christine.

"Is it broken?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

"No, only a sprain. It'll be fine." He looked up into the small crowd that had gathered and nodded towards a stagehand. "You, come help me up."

The stagehand extended his hand to Garon and pulled the younger man to his feet. The second he did the tenor fell to his knees, crying out in pain as his ankle shifted with an audible, grinding crunch.

"Garon, you're hurt badly!" She turned to the gawkers. "What are you all waiting for? Somebody go and fetch a physician for him!" She turned back to the tenor and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll go and find Erik, okay? You stay put."

Christine crossed about the back of the curtain towards the slit of fabric on the other side that she knew her husband was now watching from. As he came into view he once more seemed statuesque to her, utterly unmoved by anything around him, eyes affixed on his masterpiece as the ballet danced across the hardwood stage.

The wood beneath her feet creaked as she came up to his side, causing his attention to shift towards her. He once more smiled tenderly at her, and it broke her heart to know the stress her news would bring him.

"Darling, you've been so breathtaking to watch out there," he whispered proudly, draping his arm over her shoulders. "Every time you've taken the stage I swear I've fallen in love all over again."

He kissed the top of her head, a gesture Christine savored sweetly. She felt her face fall though as he noticed her forlorn expression and began to mirror it.

"Christine, what is it?" he asked, almost frantically. "What's the matter?"

"It's Garon, he's hurt badly. I think he might have broken his ankle."

Christine watched Erik's happy demeanor completely melt away, replaced by one of panic and, she hoped, just a little concern for the man's actual well-being. He immediately moved past her and floated away behind the curtains, a swift and silent phantom. She followed suit, only to find a physician splinting Garon's leg and Erik pacing back and forth when she reached them.

"Am I to go on for the finale then?" an eager voice asked. The small understudy for Garon beamed with excitement, his curly hair falling forward over his boyish face.

"Have you taken on a fever, boy?" Erik's voice was a mix of anger and desperation as she watched him pace. "Of course you won't be going on! This is the gala premiere of a brand new show! I won't have your second rate shrillness ruin what has so far been a flawless performance!"

The young tenor shrank back into himself, looking hurt by his director's criticism. Christine watched as Erik realized how harsh he'd sounded and turned to apologize, only to see understudy long gone.

"Christ, I didn't mean…" Erik sat down on a nearby stool in frustration. "He must know he's not _that_ terrible. It's just that-"

"He doesn't suit the role?" Mme. Giry offered, slipping out from the shadows. "You are correct on that matter, Erik. He doesn't. His voice is that of a schoolboy's. But unfortunately, he is the only understudy we have. Unless of course you would like to finish this show the way God intended."

"What the devil do you mean, Adelaide? Please, I haven't time for your wise old riddles," he groaned.

The madame stepped forward and withdrew a black mask, offering it forward. "What I mean to say, and you know it's true, is that no one would do this role better justice than you, Erik."

Erik took the mask from her and examined it in his hands. He turned it over twice and studied it closely, looking exhausted the entire time. Finally he sighed. "You know very well why I can't go on Adele...don't insult me."

He tossed the mask back at her angrily and she caught it, only to hand it over to Christine. Christine looked down at it a moment before letting her gaze shift back to Erik. The sadness she saw there in her husband's eyes was a sadness she had not seen in a long time. There was fear there too, fear she'd long thought dead and buried. In that moment though, she knew Mme. Giry was right. Erik's vocals were unmatched and were needed for this night to be a success. He would blame himself forever if it didn't go off as he'd always imagined it to.

"Erik..."

She didn't need to explain aloud all the feelings inside of her. His eyes met hers and there was an unspoken understanding that passed between them. In no words she offered to be his strength and crutch, and he accepted it. He stood up and silently took the mask, disappearing into costuming. Christine wanted to follow after him, but at that very same moment she was given her cue to go on from a flustered stagehand nearby. She stretched her leg out once more and held her head high, desperately praying to make it through this final scene without collapsing, for she had to be both her own and Erik's strength now.

As she turned towards the stage she heard Mme. Giry and one of the artists whispering in hushed tones.

"Madame, this is lunacy! We barely have time to get the director into costume, let alone into makeup!"

Mme. Giry's voice was short. "Simple woman, why is it you think monsieur Destler wears a mask in the first place?"

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	50. Finale

Finale

 _Erik_

1872

Erik pulled the dark fabric in his hands on overtop his dress shirt, adjusting the hood around his neck. He found the cloak fit him surprisingly well, the material obviously having been far too long on Garon's stocky body to begin with. Perhaps said error in measurements was why the young tenor had taken a fall in the first place. After all, Erik hadn't bothered to ask what had happened. In that moment he'd found himself much more concerned with the state of his show than the health of his leading actor. Which he knew was wrong, have no doubt. But he found that he hadn't cared one way or the other whether or not the man had broken any bones, not when his show's grand finale was only minutes away from starting. Call it a character flaw on his part.

As he picked up Don Juan's black mask and held it in his hands he found himself suddenly beginning to shake with trepidation. It wasn't stage fright, no. He was confident he had watched enough rehearsals to know Adelaide's choreography for the number. It was was most certainly instead the fear of being unmasked that made him grip that small cut of leather as if it were his last lifeline on this earth. Damn himself for the very script he wrote!

He'd used this opera as an outlet, a way to express his own fears and desires. A way to show people the world as he saw it through his own eyes. The finale of it would have Aminta exposing her disfigured lover's face as she dies, so that she may look upon it as she sings her final goodbyes. A poetic scene, really. He'd felt a certain satisfied contentment as he'd written it. Inking it had filled him with that same feeling of acceptance that he'd felt when Christine herself had first unmasked him.

He recalled the memory. She'd held his face with an expression of amorous wonder, without a single trace of fright in her eyes, and his soul had taken flight. That feeling had been the very closure that he'd wanted for beloved creation, Don Juan. He'd wanted the character he'd scorned to know that although the war had grossly disfigured him, love would grant him acceptance in the end and make life worth living again. After all, it had been what had saved him.

With a swift dab of rouge makeup over his face Erik placed the mask on and looked at himself in the mirror. He envied Garon then, envied how when the curtain fell each night he could remove his warpaint and face the world a handsome man. It was silly, to continue to dwell on such a thing, but every morning when Erik awoke he still wished that somehow he would miraculously find himself cured of his accursed image, that he could one day remove it as simply as one would stage makeup. That he could be a handsome man for his beautiful wife.

Even though he knew Christine found him attractive, he'd always found that opinion of hers biased. For she loved him, as ever a woman could love a man such as he, and wholeheartedly that seemed to cause her to look straight past his exterior. He knew he would do just the same though, have no doubt, if by happenstance a tragic accident were ever to befall her flawless complexion. Yet he would never wish that misery upon her. Not in a thousand lifetimes would he wish anyone the curse of his corpse-like visage.

"Erik, it's time."

Erik broke out of his trance. Adelaide was at the door, her cane poised gracefully in front of her, both her hands relaxed on top. She smiled at him encouragingly, but he found he could not return the gesture.

"You'd think after everything I've been through this wouldn't frighten me, yet I find that is does," he whispered, not meeting her eyes.

Adelaide walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Erik, it is only natural for the judgement of the world to still frighten you. Up until not so long ago its cruelty was all you ever knew. You have to be strong now though. For your masterpiece as well as your wife. Surely you've noticed the poor thing can barely stand, yet has she complained once tonight about the pain she feels? No, not at all. Because she wants this night to be perfect for you."

Erik felt himself taken back. "She's in pain? She hasn't seemed like it. Does she have her medicine on her?"

"I'm sure she has it, dear boy," Adelaide reassured. "But remember this isn't just one song, slowly paced in a rehearsal, this is an entire show she's performing. Its opening night at that! She's putting much more of herself out there than usual. I'm not so sure she should even be in tomorrow's performance at this rate. She may need a day of rest."

"I hate the idea of Natalie reprising Christine's role," Erik scowled. "She's a forked-tongued snake who shouldn't even be here. But if it's in the best interest of my wife's health then of course she'll do. I will make sure to see to her after the finale. I don't like that she hasn't said anything to me about this."

Adelaide laughed. "Erik, do not scold her. She is not a child anymore. She merely wanted to impress the man she loves, and you should want the same. Now go on, go out there and show her that her angel is still with her."

 _Her Angel._ The words echoed in his head. He nodded and left the room, making his way through the backstage area towards the curtain. He would go on any minute now, and could feel curious eyes falling on him from all around. The ballet and stagehands alike had gathered closely to see him perform. The ballet, no doubt, to hear if Christine's praise towards his skills were true. The stagehands, in turn, probably hoping he would fail after how many times he had barked orders to them since he'd started his employment as their superior.

As he was waved his cue from up above on the catwalk, he stepped forward onto the set and began to sing. It was a very natural feeling to him, the way the words left his lips. These were words he had created, that he had sung to himself for years, alone in his cavern. He was their creator, their God, and master. He knew them as well as he knew his own breath. Immediately the crowd realized that the leading actor had changed; he could hear all the small noises and shuffling about in the audience cease as they all honed in their attention.

He rounded the second pillar of the set as he sung, and in a flash of light his bride was there before him, looking so very much like a radiant angel. Her long hair flowed over one of her shoulders elegantly and her lips had been painted the same blood red shade they'd been the night of the masquerade. She gave him a small smile as she turned her head, only for him to see, and with that smile he found his resolve.

She was in his arms before he knew it, their bodies entangled as they sang of desire and need. He found that she was much more receptive to his touch than she had been in rehearsals with Garon, allowing herself to mold against him and lose herself in the meaning of the act. The effect was almost too sensual to be publicized in his opinion, but he wouldn't have changed a thing. He could hear nothing but the orchestra and her voice as the world around them fell away. He simply held her and sang, and that was all there was to it.

There was a certain connection that he had always felt when he and Christine sang together. Her voice was a clear bell on a foggy night, and it always seemed to bring him home. He watched in awe as she twisted out of his arms and danced lightly across the stage, all the while never letting her eyes leave his. And as much as he hated to break that gaze he found himself looking down at her form as she moved. Now closer than he had been backstage, he realized that she was indeed trying her best to keep weight off her past injury. He felt obtuse for not having noticed her discomfort beforehand.

Yet at the same time how could he blame himself? He had been bewitched these past two hours watching her dance, focused on nothing else besides her overall splendor. Her tavern dance alone, that lively tabletop number, had nearly been enough to bring him to his knees. The way the red fabric of her skirt had twirled around her had been like watching a fire come alive and consume the stage. Her smile too had been infectious as she'd strut. The entire crowd had been grinning alongside her, just as enthralled as he himself had been the first time he saw her dance. In fact, the stares from the crowd had been so intense during that particular number that at one point he'd been tempted to steal her away from each and every one of their unworthy gazes.

As they once more came together he angled his body in their dance so that when they turned she could lean her weight against him. Her eyes shown with gratitude at the gesture, glistering in the gaslight. They spun again then, and this time he could feel her leg violently shaking against his, yet never once did her voice falter in the same fashion. He was the proudest maestro there ever was at the sheer control she had mastered over the years under his guidance.

Their duet ended with a roaring applause from the audience. Erik wanted to drink in that moment of triumph but couldn't. For the actor playing Passarino could be heard on the upper set beginning his soliloquy and at that cue, they once more had to continued the act. As the young tenor sang the lights dimmed around he and Christine to represent an intimate moment between their two characters. He took her in his arms as they faced each other and slowly moved in a small dance, as to not distract the audience while Passarino sang of his woes and plot.

Christine looked around and then up at him, her eyes soft. "This is where you've always belonged," she whispered. "Just look at the way you entrance them all."

"Only a fraction of the way you do, dearest heart."

The lights glowed softly then as the music swelled with suspense. A final moment and the perfect timing of Aminta's sacrifice would then save Don Juan from a dagger to his back. Erik heard the audience gasp in horrified shock and assumed from where he stood that Christine had taken the dagger and fallen, using that as his cue to fight the other actor and end the life of his betrayer. As the actor playing Passarino fell to the ground with a languished curse, Erik dropped to the floor beside Christine, cradling her in his arms.

It was terrifying for him, to see her act as though she were dying. He knew that none of this was real of course but he still found himself shaken nonetheless. For he had seen her once before this way, just the same, in his arms, slipping farther and farther away from his control. Perhaps those memories were what sparked the very tears in his eyes as she convulsed beneath him. He was so lost in that disturbed memory then that he didn't even notice Christine's hand reaching up to meet his face.

When she finally did her eyes were firmly locked on his. He felt her fingertips slipping underneath the leather mask on his face and was forced back into the moment with a gasp. Then, just like that, the cool theatre air was breathing against his mangled skin. The audience let out a soft murmur of surprise, yet to his greatest relief no one screamed. And why would they? After all, this was a part of the show. The disfigured man shown on stage was to pity, not to fear.

Even though they felt no fear however, he did. It seemed Christine had used her experience with nearly dying to mimic small movements and gestures in her acting, to make it all the more realistic. It was too realistic though, in his opinion, too brilliantly done for him to handle calmly. He quickly found the panic in his movements to be just the same as they had been that cold winter night. The desperation he heard in his voice just as hopeless as he struggled with his character's goodbyes.

" _Kiss me one last time..._ "

She sang out Aminta's final line beautifully, that soft melody meant to and succeeding to break the hearts of everyone in the audience. As he leaned down to kiss her though the goodbye was much too real for him. And when she fell backwards, limp in his arms towards the hardwood floor, the wail of sorrow he emitted came straight from his very heart.

The curtain fell then and he could hear the audience cheering louder than they ever had before. Christine immediately sat straight up and embraced him tightly, a smile on her face as he tried to stop himself from shaking. When she noticed he wasn't returning her embrace she took his face in her hands, some of his pink and red makeup smearing onto her small fingers, and held him close, pressing her forehead to his.

"I'm okay," she whispered. "We're both okay." She laughed then, a reassuring sound to his ears. "Now stand up. The angel of music has to take his bow."

Erik attempted to smile back at her as he shook his head at his foolishness, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Christine was right, after all. She was here, and more or less she was whole and well. He helped her to her feet and together they exited the stage. Behind the curtain the opera workers cheered for them, Adelaide stepping forward to remind him to place him mask back on. He did so, quickly adjusting the black leather into place, and turned to walk back onto the stage. The rest of the cast had already bowed, and now it was just he and Christine who were left to step forward.

Christine went first, lighting up the room with her presence as the cast parted and she took center stage. Flowers fell at her feet as if she was a goddess to be worshiped and the audience praised her in just the same manor. After a moment she turned to gesture for him to join her.

He did so firmly, stepping forward and curtly bowing, not wanting to take too much credit for the character since he had only stared in the finale. The magnitude of praise he received though was quite unexpected. He could only stare with amazement as the last of the crowd rose to applaud him. The cast around him did the same, clapping their hands for their director. As he looked to either side of himself he saw wonder, as well as newfound respect, reflected in each and every one of their smiling eyes. He bowed again, then held his hands up to silence the crowd as the manager's stepped up and M. Andre made his announcements.

As he returned backstage Erik immediately found himself swarmed by his opera's cast, an overwhelming feeling if he ever felt one. He accepted their praises as kindly as he could as he watched Christine disappear into costuming with Yvette over their shoulders. Her limp was more than obvious now and the young girl seemed to be supporting his wife's weight. With a final nod to whomever was talking to him he quickly pushed past them, walking towards costuming full of worry.

Inside, Yvette was undoing the over-skirt to Christine's ensemble, carefully folding it over her arms and placing it onto a shelf. When she was done she offered Christine a stool so that she could unlace her complicated corset, which his wife took eagerly.

"Christine, are you alright?" he asked from the doorway.

She turned around to face him, a small smile on her face. "Of course I am, darling. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were limping when you got off stage," he pointed out simply. "It looked as though you were in pain. Have you taken your medicine tonight? I can fetch it for you if you'd like."

Christine shook her head. "I'm fine, dear. Really, I am. Don't worry yourself so much. I'm a strong lady you know." She stretched her leg flawlessly to prove such. "Now relax and go ready yourself for the party. After all, it's being held in your honor, in case you haven't heard, and the patrons are dying to meet tonight's musical genius."

Erik smiled and crossed the room, kissing the top of her head before turning to once more take his leave, relieved that a simple break seemed to be all she had needed. He proceeded to change inside her dressing room, taking the rouge makeup off his face and carefully replacing his usual beige mask back to its rightful place. As he did he glanced around at the many flowers that filled her room. They were marvelous displays indeed, impressive in statue, but he knew she preferred flowers on a much simpler scale. He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve the single red rose that he had brought for her tonight and placed it on her vanity with a smile, remembering the first time he'd done so and how nervous he had been back then, scared of her rejection.

 _How things have changed since then_ , he thought to himself. He glanced down at his wedding band with a soft expression. _How things have changed indeed._

 _Christine_

The party was a grand event, the opera having been a hit. The band played softly overhead as Christine greeted patron after patron, each one more complimentary than the last. In the foreground she could see Meg and Anthony swaying gently to the music, her sister's smile beaming as she listened to whatever it was her lover was whispering in her ear. Her mother was not too far off from them, blushing just the same as one finely dressed Persian police captain wooed her with his own smooth words.

"Excuse me gentleman, if I may?"

George Larson stepped up and put his arm around Christine, walking her away from the crowd of men to a quieter place by the wall. He looked down at her leg once, disapprovingly, before smiling up at her.

"Might I start by saying that tonight Christine, you were exceptional."

"Thank you, Dr. Larson."

"I do worry though about your condition, my dear." He laughed. "Well, _conditions_ actually, if I am permitted to speak frankly. Have you by chance told Erik yet?"

Christine's eyes went wide and she quickly looked around to make sure her husband was not within earshot before swatting the doctor's arm.

"I'm telling him tonight!" she hissed. "Please, no more talk of that! You'll ruin the surprise."

Dr. Larson laughed at her playful expression. "I see! Well, what a surprise indeed! I can't wait to congratulate the old boy. Say, If you don't mind, might myself and Annie make a house call in the morning? I have yet to tell her but I know she'll want to share in the good news."

"That would be wonderful!" Christine exclaimed. "Yes, do come over. Oh, and bring the girls. I feel as though I haven't seen them in quite some time now."

"Of course! I would have brought them tonight - you should've seen how mad Eliza was when I told her she couldn't come - but I found the context of tonight's opera to be a _bit_ too mature for them."

"That's more than understandable," Christine agreed, nodding a goodbye to him as he turned to mingle once more. After all, her husband's opera had been not a subtle one. She blushed to herself, remembering the finale and how amazing it had felt to sing and dance so passionately together, her body pressed up against his. She had gotten lost in those moments, mesmerized by his piercing golden eyes behind his dark, leather mask, physically drawn to him as he'd beckoned her closer with his voice.

Speak of the devil himself, she watched him finally descend the staircase, running into Dr. Larson enthusiastically at the base. The two friends began eagerly talking amongst themselves as she started her way towards them. About halfway through the crowd though she began to feel another wave of nausea coming over her and quickly diverted. She thought about running to the lavatory, but didn't want to risk someone in the cast seeing her ill and telling Erik. With no other ideas, she ascended the back stairs up towards the rooftop.

With each step she climbed she felt a burning sensation take hold of her damaged leg. She didn't sway though. There wasn't time for that. As she burst through the door she immediately fell to the side, emptying the contents of her stomach behind a statue. She stayed there a moment or two, embarrassed even though there was no one else around, and tried to settle her nerves. Her leg was terribly painful now and she attempted to stretch it forward, a feat that proved most difficult in the gown she had changed into for the party.

"I say, are you alright there, girl?"

Christine panicked, hearing a voice, and glanced over her shoulder to see an older woman approaching her, a concerned look upon her face. She seemed to be in her late fifties or early sixties at the latest, with hair the color of a silver-streaked midnight. Her face had probably once been considered sharp and attractive, though now ran deep with lines and creases that were only made worse by her worried expression.

Christine pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her gown. The woman helped her, dusting off the side of her skirt, all the while looking down at her with a motherly concern.

"Are you ill, little one?" she asked kindly. This time as she spoke Christine noticed that her accent was rather thick, German or Austrian by the sound of it. "Should I call you a physician?"

"No, madame, I am well. Just a little motherly sickness is all," Christine admitted, feeling her cheeks growing red.

Christine placed a hand on her stomach with a smile, feeling no qualm against speaking honestly towards the kind stranger. The women's face fell though as she spoke, and as she looked down at the spot where Christine's hand held her corset her lips seemed to turn up in disdain.

"I was a mother once," she said solemnly after a moment, looking away slightly. "Is this your first?"

 _Once?_ Christine frowned, wondering how old the woman had been when she'd lost her child. She held her stomach tighter, protectively, dreading to even think of such a thing as a possibility.

"Yes madame. I am newly married."

"Well congratulations, deary. I wish you the best. Have no doubt though, pregnancy is difficult, and birth itself even harder. You seem like a strong young woman though. I'm sure you will endure it just fine." The woman looked her up and down once more before taking a step to the side. "Now, if you are certain you don't need a physician then I must be off. I have some rather important matters to attend to this evening."

Christine nodded her head in understanding. "Thank you, madame. I promise you, I will be just fine. Please, I don't wish you to cause any further delays in your evening."

The older woman nodded her head and turned away towards the direction of the stairs. As she did, Christine noticed that the back of her dark dress was wearing away at the bottom, from many years of gracing the ground. Her sleeves too seemed to sag, the black lace stretched and pulled. She was an older beauty, no doubt of it, but something told Christine that she was probably widowed and no longer under the best of circumstances these days.

As she neared the staircase the door opened of it's own accord and Christine saw none other than Nadir peering through the doorway.

"Madame Destler, are you up here?" he called. "Erik has been looking for you."

Christine hurried forward and Nadir noticed her, greeting her with a dashing smile. As she did though she noticed the older woman stepping back from them, a look of shock on her face.

"He knows that I am here?" she asked, horrified. "How can that be?"

Christine froze where she stood, turning to look at the old woman with the same look of surprise Nadir now wore on his own face.

"I'm sorry madame, you are...?" he inquired, stepping up onto the rooftop and closing the door behind himself defensively.

The woman gave him a pointed look. "Surely you already know if you've come looking for me! Don't play games with me!"

Christine felt the sickness returning to her stomach, though this time she was positive it didn't stem from her pregnancy. Instead it was a sickness derived of knowing she had just been touched by a monster, a demon in a kind woman's shell. She wanted to look away but couldn't, her eyes affixed on the German as a burning hatred seared through her.

"I assure you I haven't the faintest idea as to who you are, madame," Nadir reasoned. "Perhaps you heard me wrong. I was simply coming up here to escort Mme, Destler back to her husband. Now, if you'll please excuse us we'll both be on our way."

Christine felt Nadir gently grab hold of her arm as the German's face twisted in disgust. "Her _husband_? Dear God in Heaven, you poor thing! _You're_ married to my son?"

Christine felt Nadir's hand leave her arm as he stiffened up. "Pardon me, your son? You - you're Erik's mother? No, that can't be. He told me himself that you were dead."

"Oh, he probably wishes I were!" she spat. "Just the same as I wish he was! That little maggot cursed me the very day he was born. I've known nothing but misfortune ever since he took his first breath. To be frank though, I thought he'd passed away years ago. Imagine my surprise to open the paper one day and discover just the opposite. To see that he lives, and thrives at that! All the while I've been suffering in poverty ever since his father passed away. Come now, what sort of justice is that?"

"The justice of God!" Christine couldn't help but yell. She stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides. "You haggard snake, you deserve everything that's come to pass to you, and more!" Christine felt Nadir's hands fall on either side of her shoulders, but she shook them off. "Why, I have half a mind to push you over the side of this roof for what you did to him! _You left him to die_!"

Erik's mother let out a flat laugh as she shook her head. "You idiot girl, you know nothing! I spared his life that night! I could've killed him right then and there, drowned him and sent him back to Hell, but I was merciful! Too merciful, if you ask me!"

Christine strutted forward and slapped the woman's cheek so hard her head turned.

"What he had to suffer was worse than death!" she spit, feeling her eyes water. "He was only a child! A child that was tortured, beaten, and raped for years because of your so-called mercy! How could any mother do that? How could you sell off your only child to a life such as that!"

The old woman brought her hand up to her cheek, frightened, and for a moment, looked stunned at what she was hearing. Maybe even guilty. Christine would never know though. As soon as she attempted to speak again Nadir moved between them and held up his hand up to her, flashing his badge.

"You will leave these grounds this instant, Mme. Destler," he instructed. "In fact you will leave this city, tonight! And if I ever see or hear from you again I will have you arrested on the grounds of aggravated assault."

The woman's eyes were narrow slits as she looked over his shoulder, her dark eyes meeting Christine's. Christine could only imagine her face looked just the same. Just as cold, just as full of hatred.

"Me charged? That harlot is the one who struck me!" she rebutted.

"Maybe I say you struck first!" Nadir yelled, the tone in his voice making both women jump. "Maybe I say you made threats on her life and I had to shoot you in self-defense! Do not play this game with me woman, _you will lose,_ " he warned darkly.

The woman stayed quiet, accepting that this was not a fight she could win, not at her age. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine, I'll go." She turned to face Christine, who hadn't budged an inch, still as stone as she stood tall against her adversary. "You just wait though, girl. When that child you carry is born a deformed freak you'll want to rid yourself of it just the same as I did."

"I said move!" Nadir snarled, grabbing the woman roughly by the arm. "I'm escorting you out this instant! I can only assume you're here in the first place to steal money from my dear friends, and I won't stand for that! Christine is right, you've fallen exactly where you belong." He turned towards Christine with apologetic eyes. "I'll be back for you, my dear. Stay calm and stay put."

With those words they were gone, descending the staircase, and Christine was alone, sinking to her knees on the rooftop, crying for no reason other than the fact that she didn't know how else to cope with what had just happened. She held her stomach tenderly and wept, looking up at the dark night sky as the clouds rolled by without a single care as to what had just happened.

"She is wrong," she whispered adamantly to herself. She looked down at her abdomen. "You will be loved no matter what. I shall give you all the love my heart can give, and if you look like your father, I will simply love you all the more, my angel. Don't you worry."

She stayed like that, frozen in place until Nadir returned to fetch her. When he did he fell beside her and held her closely as an older brother would. It was comforting, to have a friend in that moment. She leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes, exhausted.

"I had no idea Erik had suffered such a torturous childhood," Nadir said in a low voice. "I've grown to consider him a close friend of mine and yet he has never once mentioned such horrors to me."

"And I would be grateful if he never had to, Nadir," Christine said as he helped her to stand. "Please, know that my husband's past is not something he ever wishes to discuss."

Nadir nodded in agreement, understanding well enough that certain things were best left buried. "What of his mother? Should I inform him that she was here tonight?"

Christine thought long and hard on the matter. On one point, it was only right to not hide things from him. They'd promised never to hide things from one another ever again after the incident on their honeymoon. But at the same time she wondered if his poor heart could take another heartbreak.

"He's suffered enough," she decide., "If she is truly gone then I see no reason to mention she was ever here."

"Agreed. I imagine the stress would be difficult for him to handle and I don't think it wise for him to worry about her, especially with a family on the way. I had an officer follow her. Should she stay in town, I'll know and handle it. Please, do not stress over her. She will make it no where near your home or livelihood. You have my word on that."

"Thank you, Nadir. You are a true friend to the both of us." She smiled and thought of her unborn baby. "To all three of us."

 _Erik_

Erik skimmed the crowd, searching for Christine. Nadir had gone looking for her quite some time ago now and had still not returned, which was making him nervous. He was sure she was simply lost in the crowd, wooing her many fans, but it had grown a habit of his to worry about her when she was not within his eyesight, understandably.

"Erik, you were searching for me?" he heard a lighthearted voice ask.

He turned around to see a smiling Christine twirling the rose he had left for her in between her small hands.

"I was. I hadn't seen you since the end of the show and wanted to make sure that you were alright."

"Darling, I told you not to worry so much. I simply stepped out to powder." She held up her rose before his eyes. "I see you are still just as romantic as ever. I say, will you always be this sweet-hearted?"

He laughed and embraced her, holding her close. "As long as it makes you smile, then yes. Always."

Christine grinned in response to his words and set the flower down on the nearest table. At that moment her sister ran forward and embraced her, the young blonde bouncing with excitement. The two of them began discussing the show while Nadir approached them nonchalantly, a glass in hand.

"Ah, I saw you've found Christine!" he exclaimed. "Splendid!"

Erik sighed. "No thanks to you."

Nadir simply shrugged at his words and carried on, inquiring Adelaide's whereabouts and disappearing once more into the throng.

The party lasted long into the night, until finally even he was beginning to tire. He and Christine took their leave after making their appropriate farewells and made their way home down the long country road. Erik expected his wife to doze off during their ride, but she seemed much too riled up, chatting the entire time about the show and how wonderful the party had gone. He smiled the entire time she spoke, allowing himself to glow in the success that tonight had brought them.

When they finally arrived at the house Erik was relieved. The night had been loud and bustling and the quiet, dark walls of the inside of their home seemed a godsend to him. Christine removed her shawl by the door and hung it up, humming a soft melodic version of their duet from earlier. He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, recalling how sensual that particular scene had been for them. His wife had never sung that song so passionately before tonight, and he grinned knowing it was he who had invoked such desire in her voice.

"I wasn't lying earlier when I said I may haven fallen in love with you all over again tonight," he whispered against her shoulder as he placed a tender kiss there. "You were divine tonight."

"And you, so brave," she murmured softly, turning to remove his mask. He smiled down down at her as she traced his deformity with her fingers. "I knew you could do it."

"Dear heart, with you by my side I feel as though I can do anything."

Christine blushed, ever the sight as he scooped her up in her arms, listening to her bright laugh as he carried her up the stairs. Near the top though he stopped and coughed with embarrassment, setting her down as Breanne nearly toppled them over.

"Breanne, what on Earth are you doing, wandering the house at this hour? It's near three in the morning!" he exclaimed. Sometimes he felt as though the girl worked too hard, and this of evident of such.

"Apologies, monsieur! I didn't mean to give you a fright. I simply had something to fix in one of the spare rooms that had slipped my mind earlier."

He walked towards the room Breanne had just left, full of confusion. "Honestly mademoiselle, what could be so important that it couldn't wait until a decent hour? As I've told you before, you needn't stress so much about-"

All words left him as he stepped through the doorway of the room. In fact, he nearly had to catch himself before he fell over. He was overcome with so many emotions all at once that he couldn't handle them. It was like being struck by lightning. He placed a hand down on the nearest piece of furniture to steady himself, then looked down at the post he had gripped in wonder as realization finally struck.

"This...this is a cradle," he whispered to himself, looking over the pale, pine wood beneath his palm.

He turned back towards the doorway to see Christine leaning against the frame, a nervous smile on her face as she bit down on her thumb. Behind her Breanne was practically bouncing, a ridiculous grin plastered on her face.

"Christine...are you?" He couldn't figure out how to ask the question in his mind coherently. "Are we…?"

Christine had happy tears forming in her eyes as she nodded. "Yes Erik...we are. You're going to be a father."

 _A father._

Erik felt his own eyes watering, and shuddered thinking what a mess he must've looked like in that moment. He crossed the small space separating himself and his wife and enveloped her in his arms, squeezing her tightly. He found himself nearly crying as he heard her begin to, those soft sobs sounding in his ear. He knew these were happy tears though, and his heart soared as he picked her up and spun her around the room.

"Christine, this is incredible!" he exclaimed to her in wonder as he set her back down. He glanced around the room once more and noticed a large blanket folded neatly over the rocking chair in the corner. He recognized the stitching immediately. Those intricate roses he'd notice anywhere.

"Yvette knows already?" he asked, flabbergasted.

Christine laughed. "Of course Yvette knows! She's the one who's been needing to adjust my costumes each night!"

"Does anyone else know?"

"The Larson's do, of course, with George being my doctor." Christine mused. "Oh, and I might've told Nadir earlier tonight."

"Nadir? You told Nadir before you told me?!"

He laughed and shook his head as Christine did the same, shrugging her shoulders. He then sighed, ashamed with himself. How had he not noticed his own wife was with child? Everyone else apparently had. Had he been so wrapped up in his opera that he'd missed the signs? Had there even been signs? Christine must have noticed his head was beginning to spin, for he felt her take hold of his arm and lead them out the room towards their own.

"I think you need some rest now, love. Come, we can discuss this more in the morning."

She was right, of course, as always, though he doubted he would find any rest tonight. First his opera and now this news...why tonight had certainly been a night for the books! As he climbed into bed though he wondered what it would be like, having a baby around the house. Where they as loud as everyone said they were? Were they as fragile? He didn't know the first thing about babies, least of all how to be a father to one. He knew his angel would excel at motherhood, for she excelled at everything she put her mind to. But what if he was terrible at parenting? What if...

"Christine, what if the baby looks like me?" he found himself asking quietly.

Christine leaned over in the darkness and kissed him with all the kindness in her soul, cradling his face in her gentle hands. "Then I shall love this babe all the more, Erik. I'd have to be a madwoman not to."

.

.

.

.

* * *

 **Are you guys crying right now? Because I'm crying. I've wanted to come full circle with that last line ever since I first wrote it in chapter seven. It's the perfect ending, no?**

 **xoxo**

 **Nicole**


	51. Epilogue

Love Will Continue

1895

 _Erik_

"Must you butcher every song I attempt to write? Honestly, it's rather unbecoming of a young gentleman such as yourself."

Erik stared down at the small toddler sitting on his lap and watched as the child banged loudly against the keys of the grand piano in the pit of the opera house. The little boy cared not for his father's work, instead insisting on making the music of children, which was pure racket at best. Though he assumed the child would grow to be a brilliant musician one day, at the moment he was simply a noisemaker. The prattle of split chords delighted his son though, causing him to smile with glee and turn to look upon his father, as if to ask: _Are you proud? Look at the music I make! I am just like you!_

Erik couldn't help but smile as he listened carefully to the music his son was attempting to create. Any of the dreadful sounds that could be transcribed into actual notes he made sure to pen down. He couldn't wait for the day his son was old enough to read sheet music. He would then gladly gift his child the first solo piece he'd ever written, a smug smile on his face as payback for his now bleeding ears.

"Gaige, come along! Leave your father be a while."

Erik looked up to see his small wife walking down the aisles towards them. Her stomach was swollen with their third child, who would be along by the end of April. She looked frazzled yet happy, her curls pinned up atop her head in a crooked style he found simply adorable. She'd started wearing it that way when she'd turned thirty, as a tribute to her mother, basing the look off the singular photograph they had of her.

As she stepped closer Erik noticed the pained limp in her gait, that struggle of hers still making him frown with discontentment even after so many years had passed.

To this day he still blamed himself for her injury, the injury that had ultimately cost her her career in dancing and almost taken her away from him. Christine had told him countless times that everything in their lives had happened for a reason, and he tried his best to hold dear those words of wisdom. The fact that she was alive today was a miracle all its own after all, and so he counted his blessings on the matter.

"I can keep him a while longer, dear. There's no rush. In fact, he was just composing his first song."

Erik handed her the sheet of music with a smirk and watched his wife snicker at his ill attempt at humor. She rolled her eyes and handed it back, leaning down to pick up their son. Gaige's tiny hands immediately flew to his mother's stomach, which had fascinated him wholeheartedly ever since she had begun to show. Erik couldn't wait for the day their baby began to kick. Surely then his son would lose his mind. Erik knew he had the first time Christine had been pregnant. It had been the most miraculous of feelings, the strong thundering of their daughter's kicks as she'd made her presence finally known to them. Now it seemed that even to this day she never stopped moving, still boundless as ever, even as a young lady.

"It's fine. I know you have rehearsal today and I wouldn't want us to be in the way. I only needed you to watch him during my appointment," Christine reassured him.

Erik scoffed, reaching forward for his son and taking him back into his arms. "Rehearsal isn't for hours more. I'd much rather you catch up on some rest. How was the appointment, anyhow?"

"Good! All is well," Christine beamed. "George says the baby is healthy and active."

"As active as his own?" Erik pondered, looking up at the stage.

They watched as Eliza Larson raced across it, holding a pair of ballet slippers high above her frizzy head. A second later Angelica was right behind her, laughing as she fought for her possessions. The two young ladies had grown to look very different over the years, yet even a stranger could tell they were sisters from the way they bickered and protected one another with fierce passion. Eliza herself had quickly grown out of her shy, childhood shell and become quite the firecracker, whilst Angelica was as headstrong as ever. The two were a well known pair in the opera house, known for their talent as well as their mischievous antics.

"Eliza, you don't have rehearsal today. What are you doing here?" Erik inquired as he gestured for them to settle down.

"Pestering my dear older sister, sir! What else?" Her grin was cheeky as she spoke. She knew that Erik considered them family and therefore hardly ever held her true tongue when prompted with a question.

Erik turned back towards his wife, a judgmental look on his face.

"Now who do they remind you of?" he asked her with a coy smile.

"I haven't the faintest idea, dear. Who?"

"You," he stated. "You and Meg were just like that once."

"We still are," Christine reminded him sternly, sensing the change of tone of his voice.

Erik paused, becoming lost in thought. "You used to run and dance just like them," he whispered faintly, looking up at the Larson girls. He could picture Christine, so very young, racing through the halls of the theatre with little Meg hot on her heels. The similarities between the two pairs of women were impossible to miss, only nowadays there was no phantom for the ballet rats to pretend they were running from. The rumors of an Opera Ghost at the Populaire had long since passed, only a fairy tale known to few now. "Do you remember?"

Erik felt Christine's fingertips on the side of his face, turning his chin up to meet her eyes.

"I do," she told him firmly. "But now it's their turn. My time had passed, as has Meg's. We both love teaching though, so please don't fret. I don't feel as though I missed out on anything. I had a good couple of years as prima donna here, which is more than most get." She sighed. "Besides, if I had gone on to tour the world as an artist I never would have known the simple joys of our family life." She reached down and smoothed a hand over her stomach with a faint smile. "A family that only continues to grow."

Erik smiled up at her, reaching out to place his hand on her belly, covering her small one with his own. Their fingers intertwined there as he wondered absentmindedly if this next child would be a second beautiful boy or another genius girl. He couldn't care either way just as long as the child was happy and healthy, but it was still exciting to ponder the possibilities.

Their first child was unlike anything they could have possibly prepared themselves for. Headstrong and feisty, Clarice had never shown an ounce of interest in music. Instead as a young child she had studied the weeds in their yard, climbed trees, and named the very stars themselves. She'd had a thirst for knowledge from the very moment she'd learned to speak, and learning as much as she could quickly became her only priority in life. Erik had been all but too excited to indulge in her many interests over the years, even though they differed so greatly from his own, for any chance to teach anything at all would always thrill him.

Clarice had gone away just this past summer to a boarding school in northern France. There she was to begin her studies in science and medicine under some of the best influences in the country. He had no doubt that by the time she turned eighteen she would be a marvel of a woman, someone who would change the very world itself. He just hoped she would continue to stay out of trouble until then.

Her letters from school seemed innocent enough, which was always reassuring. She would write of her studies and her friends, of books she'd read or herbs she'd helped to garden. Each and every letter made him exceptionally proud and brought tears to Christine's eyes as he read them aloud in their study. Their daughter was very punctual about her weekly letters. They could always expect them to come the same day every week. Because of their predictability Christine would wait at the end of their drive for the post every Tuesday, summer through winter, and would write her return notes those very nights.

In just a few weeks now, Clarice would be home for her spring reprieve, just in time for the arrival of her new sibling. Erik had been marking off his calendar each day for months now, counting down to both of their arrivals. He couldn't tell which he was more excited for. He loved them both so dearly, his very first child as well as this new one to come. Each had their own special place in his heart.

"What are you thinking about?" Christine asked wistfully, cocking her head to the side with curiosity.

Erik squeezed her hand tenderly. "Only how lucky I am, darling. That's all. You're right. Our life here is wonderful and I agree that I wouldn't change a thing."

Christine smiled and leaned down to kiss him. The kiss was sweet but brief, for Gaige decided to begin thundering down on the piano keys again, causing them to jump apart in surprise, far too soon for his taste. They would have to finish that small intimate moment later.

"Music!" Gaige cried for.

Erik reached down and took hold of his son tightly, proud of the way the young boy's eyes lit up whenever he saw the piano. As much as he supported Clarice's many endeavors, her disinterest in music had personally wounded him the first time she'd spoken aloud of it. Boring, she'd called it. Boring! He still scoffed at the memory. He'd had half a mind in that moment to fear the hospital had given them the wrong child, and that he had been raising someone else's daughter for eight straight years. It took him days after that event to even begin to fathom how a child conceived of song couldn't fall prey to its spell. In the end though she was her own person, and to that he was grateful.

Gaige however had barely been a year old when he'd first begun his fascination with sound. Whether he was drumming on the floor or ripping up paper, his eyes were always shinning with amusement as he listened to the noises that life created. He would make a fine musician yet, no doubt. A few years more and then Erik would begin serious lessons with him, daily instruction, just as he'd given his mother. Perhaps he would even sing one day. Erik could think no greater joy than Gaige being able to gift Christine with a song someday. Her heart would soar if he did - it would dance with delight! Their own little tenor to follow in her footsteps on the Parisian stage!

Until then they would have the new baby along, and with it all the joys and struggles that come with having a newborn. The birth of course would be the most frightening part of it all for him. Christine being in pain was a sound that still shattered him to pieces, for reasons he knew he would never shake free of. It had been a few years now but he still remembered the way she'd cried all throughout the night that Gaige had been born. It had been twice the length of the labor Clarice had put her through, and he'd worried for hours on end that something must've been going terribly wrong, images of blood plaguing his mind. Not even Nadir, with his calming voice, or Adelaide, with her words of logic, had been able to console his nerves that cool August night. It was only when Christine was resting soundly and he was safely holding his tiny newborn son that he had finally been able to breathe.

But no matter how things went with this child, he knew Christine would push through the process just as well and whole as she had before. She was too strong a woman not to. He honestly believed there wasn't anything beyond her capabilities, especially when it came to the children. Her children had become her entire world, the very center of her existence besides music. Though they would always have the music. After all, the music was where it had all begun.

Christine struggled to gracefully join them on the piano bench, laughing at her clumsy, pregnant movements. Gaige wiggled between them, content and smiling as his mother began to play a bright, happy tune. Erik joined in, matching the simple melody with ease. They stayed that way a while, looking the part of a picturesque, joyous family portrait. From the corner of his eye Erik could see Christine passing sly looks his way every so often as she watched him play. He was no doubt looking at her the same way, just as enamored with her beauty and talent as he'd always been.

Gaige joined in for the finale of their song, slamming both his hands down on the center of the keys. Christine laughed and smiled brightly, hugging him close and kissing his forehead as Erik brought his arm around the both of them.

 _The three of them_ , he corrected himself with a smile.

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 _Fin._

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 **And...curtain!**

 **A** **very special thank you to everyone who followed this story from the very beginning! I already can't wait to start my next one and I can only hope you'll be there for that journey as well.**

 **In the meanwhile please leave a review! Let me know your thoughts on the epilogue! I live to read reviews of my work!**

 **Until next time,**

 **Nicole**


	52. Author's Note

Author's Note

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Hey everyone! I just wanted to say a quick thank you to all my valued readers who tuned in to read _The Beauty Underneath_ from the very start. This story was my first ever fanfiction and without all of your beautiful reviews I never would have found the strength to get through what ended up being nine whole months of writing! This motherfudger is _575_ pages when opened up on Word - can you believe that??

For those of you who were interested, I will indeed be posting a one-shot of the backstory between Adelaide and Gustave. It will be released as a holiday treat in the wintertime.

Until then I would love your continued support as I attempt to contribute further to this fandom. I have just begun posting chapters to my newest story, _One Sweet Chance_ , and would love for you all to check it out.

xoxo,

Nicole


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